A New York Minute
by Insomniac37
Summary: What do the newsies really have in common with each other? Everything. And nothing. *New Chapters*
1. A New York Minute

It was a chill, gray morning. The thick clouds seemed to hang low in the sky, making New York seem smaller, less easily escapable. One look out the window had made him groan and desire desperately to go back to sleep, but he couldn't. He would have to wade out into the cold, biting winds, and the puddled, slippery streets with their curbs of brown snow. Not that it was unusual. The newsies sold papers in rain or shine, but today what he had to do was more important than selling papers.

As he stared down out of the window he turned over the conversation he had rehearsed in his mind again and again the night before. He had laid awake for several hours after the boy's low chatter and muffled conversations had ceased. He had listened as deep breaths turned to snores while he played out the scene in his mind. It was important he did this and did it right; but for all it's import, the thing he was to do today was even less inviting than the cold streets and only intensified his desire to return to his bed.

"So how'd ya sleep?"

Mush asked him that question every morning and every morning he would give the same answer. His single, almost permanently arched eyebrow always seemed to make people think he was joking. Perhaps he was, but it didn't feel like it today. Mush, as always, walked away laughing at his witticism. He supposed that today was just another day to the smiling, cheerful boy. A day to do the same old things over again. He could not help but envy Mush.

As they left the Lodging House in a group, he let the other boys draw in front of him. Every boy was wearing all they clothes they owned, which was to say, not much. Their breath puffed from them like miniature versions of the thick ones overhead as they laughed and shouted to one another. Their early morning playfulness was louder and more exuberant than usual owing, no doubt, to the bone-crushing cold that had hit each of them like cinder block to the face as they left the relative warmth of the Lodging House.

They were jumping up and down, hugging themselves to maintain some body heat and already jogging down the street. Clearly, they were intent on getting inside the gates of the distribution center which offered a little more protection from the freezing winds. He, however, did not follow them.

In a strange way, he was grateful for the crappy weather. No one paid him the slightest attention as he palmed his back cowboy hat up onto his head and turned deliberately to head in the opposite direction. On the corner he gave the empty street one last sweeping gaze.

* * *

His blue eyes scanned from left to right, something he did often. There were no familiar faces in sight. No one had followed him. It was imperative that this was the case since his reputation was at stake. It was a reputation he had built for himself as cold and emotionless. One that he backed with an ice-blue stare and a gold-topped cane. He nodded his approval and jerked open the door that he had stopped short of, his hand on the knob.

It was warmer in here, but smelled worse. He had traded the biting cold for the stench of sweat, vomit and desperation. The tiny bar was a long way from his usual haunts and he had planned it so. Today he wanted to be left very much alone.

Today was March 14th, a day that turned up every year, but always surprised him. It was not the actual date that surprised him, nor that it occurred once a year. What surprised him were the emotions that rose up in him each March 14th, and that, after all this time, he still could not hold them back.

So, like a puppy with it's tail between it's legs, he slunk away to some bar to drown his shame in alcohol. Each March 14th made him feel disappointed in himself. He was not the cold, emotionless leader he always portrayed. He had some feelings somewhere in there and feeling were a weakness; something to be rightly ashamed over.

He slumped into the nearest barstool and pulled out a rather bent cigarette, wanting to calm his frustration. As he struck the match and received only a few sparks, the feelings settled on him like lightly falling snowflakes. Snowflakes made of lead. He could practically feel their weight.

Frustration, anger, fear, sadness and doubt. They seeped into him like poison and spread, each giving way to another something he had not felt pang him since the last March 14th.

He struck the same match again, but did not produce a flame.

Self-hatred threatened to consume him over a tiny matchstick. Why could he not do it? And not just the match, why could he not squash those feelings? He did so on every other day of the year without any difficulty. Was he really that weak?

He struck the match again.

* * *

The light and heat flared for a moment and then died slightly and flickered in the chill breeze as he cupped his hands around the end of his cigarette while he lit it. Then he leaned back against the park bench and inhaled deeply, shaking the match out.

"Ugh, you know I hate it when you smoke those things."

His lone blue eye flicked from the ember of his smoke to the blond girl sitting next to him. With her pale, perfect skin and emerald eyes she would have been very pretty if she didn't have her nose wrinkled and her eyes narrowed in a look of complete loathing.

"You know, I can't get that smell out of my clothes anymore. Even my hair smells like it."

He shrugged and arranged his face in an apologetic expression. It was something he did often when he had no idea what else to say to her. She seemed to always gather from it what she wanted though, and it had become a close ally of his lately when dealing with her.

"Why don't you quit?"

"Cause I don't wanna." He answered her truthfully.

"Not even for me?"

Her eyes rounded and softened. She tilted her head and raised her eyebrows at him. He smirked slightly as he inhaled deeply from his cigarette and exhaled, letting the smoke drift lazily away. She tilted her head the other way now, still giving him the full impact of her dazzlingly green eyes.

As well as his apologetic expression worked on her, the sad green eyes worked on him. He chuckled a little as he recognized it. Then he ground his cigarette out on the park bench beside him and looked over at her wide smile.

* * *

She showed both rows of pearly white teeth when she smiled. Her high cheekbones raised, causing her eyes to almost disappear into slits in the top of her head. It was not really a smile that made her prettier, but it was sincere and happy. It was an infectious sort of smile and he found himself grinning back.

"What can I get'cha, sweetie?"

He had been eating here for the better part of three weeks, almost daily if he could afford it. He would have liked to say it was because of their sandwiches, which were good and cheap, but in reality, it was because of her.

Her smile ran a chill down his spine and gave him a reason to get out of bed each day. Her presence was warm and soothing, like a candle. A day without her smile was like a day without air. For him, she was the moon and all the stars in the sky. She was his sun peeking out from white puffy clouds on an endless blue backdrop. More so especially, on days like today when the real one refused to shine.

And he would never tell her. He knew it as surely as he would be back the next day and that she would smile at him. He would never tell her what she meant to him because he could barely pluck the courage to respond to her with a '_hello_'.

"Youse alrigh', sweetie? Ya look a little lost today." She said passing a hand in front of his eyes.

"M'fine." He managed, as he felt his ears burn.

"Good, so tha usual den?" She asked as she reached out and ruffled his soft brown curls fondly.

Her touch sent something like an electric current coursing through him. The words he had been trying to form were lost somewhere between his brain and his mouth. He felt his heart leap up into the vicinity of his Adam's apple. He wasn't sure he'd be able to speak even if he did manage to find any words rattling in his empty head. So he nodded wordlessly at her and she flashed him one more of her brilliant smiles before she turned from him and swayed back across the little restaurant.

He stared at the back of her as she walked away.

* * *

He did not need to see the front of her to recognize her. The dark brown hair that cascaded softly down her back was achingly familiar and the bright red bow perched atop her head was proof enough of her identity. She was just as short as she had always been, which was to say, even shorter than him, if that were possible.

He had stopped dead in his tracks close enough to hear her when she spoke and even her voice was exactly the same as he remembered.

"I'm looking for Vitalino Moretti."

One or two of the newsies that she had posed the bald statement to had looked up at him. There was obviously little doubt in many of their minds who she referred to. Still, he did not move. For a moment, he contemplated running. She had not seen him yet and surely the other newsies would cover for him.

"Lots a newsies go by lots a names 'round hea." Specs piped up, sensing the other boy's obvious hesitation. He was ever so observant. "Maybe youse can tell us what he looks like?"

"Well, he's Italian, dark hair and eyes, kind of short and he looks-"

"Like me." He had spoken without really thinking about it's consequences.

A second later, she had turned on her heels and thrown her arms around his neck with enough force to rival a hurricane. She knocked the cigar clean out of his mouth and his hat askew on his head with her over-enthusiastic greeting. When she finally released him, her face was alight with happiness, her eyes brimming with tears.

"Oh Vito, I've missed you so much!"

Once more she threw her arms around his neck and he found himself grinning and hugging her back despite having seconds before wanting to flee her very presence. She kissed his cheek and squeezed him once more before letting go. He offered her his arm and settled his cap back on his head with his other hand.

* * *

The thin material did absolutely nothing to protect his ears from the chills winds no matter how low he pulled it on his head. He breathed into his cold hands and rubbed them against each other before covering his ears with them. They felt about cold enough to fall off.

Next to him, the smaller, much younger newsie watched and emulated. He did not understand why it sparked annoyance in his mind. The kid was always hanging around, always watching him and repeating his actions like a weird, slow-motion game of '_Simon says_'. He ought to have been used to it by now.

Maybe it was the weather. Not only did he have to stand out in the cold, trying to scrape a living, but the cold winds meant that any sensible person was indoors. Only a fraction of the people that usually milled about on a nicer day remained and they all seemed hurried to get where they were going and out of this foul winter day.

An older couple, clad in thick coats passed them. He held up a newspaper and beside him, the kid did the same. The elderly man pressed a penny into the kid's hand and took the newspaper from him and they passed on. His annoyance mounted.

It must have shown on his face, because the kid offered him the penny with round eyes and a guilty look. He shook his head and closed his eyes, reminding himself that the kid was just a kid. He didn't have any control over his age, or that people generally tended to favor buying from him. In fact, on more than one occasion the kid had remarked that he wished he were older.

The kid smiled up at him and he began to feel a little better, though he would have felt much better if he could just get inside out of the cold.


	2. Out of the Cold

People were pressing past him, all dressed in their Sunday finest. The small children had ribbons in their hair or tiny bow ties to fuss with. The women wore modest, but beautiful dresses. The men wore suits. He always felt out of place here. He had no suit coat and his pants, vest and shirt were dirty. He pushed his hat off the back of his head and let it hang down his back where it always did as he ran a hand through his hair, trying to make himself seem a little more respectable.

He heard the loud buzz of the doors opening and the noise level in the room ahead of him rise. People were greeting each other, hugging men they had not seen in a long time or shaking hands with them. In a corner, sitting demurely at a table sat the man he had come to see.

"How ya doin', Francis?" He asked as he held out a hand.

"Can't complain." He couldn't help but grin as he shook his hand.

"So what'cha been up to? Been, what? Two months since ya been ta see me?"

He tilted his head to the side and considered.

"Same old. Sellin' papers still. How 'bout youse?"

"Ah, my cell mate's wife sent him an apple pie for his birthday yesterday. He let me have some. Delicious. Can't say as I get dat kind a thing around hea often."

He grinned.

"Ain't nothin' on ya Ma's apple pie though. Youse remember?"

His smile froze on his face. He had not planned on having his mother randomly thrown into the conversation. The thought of her always made his heart twinge just a little.

"What else ya been up to, Pops?"

His father eyed him suspiciously at the abrupt change in conversation, but thankfully, let it go.

"I been studyin'. Just outta books, ya know, can't get my hands on the real thing in hea, but when I get out, youse and me, we's gonna go inta business, ya know? Be the best team there eva was."

"Youse said dat last time, Pops."

He didn't know what made him say it. Perhaps it had something to do with being on edge because of the comment about his mother. He found he could not meet his father's eye and he stared down at the table in front of him, running his finger down a long scratch in the surface of it.

"Dis ain't gonna be like last time." His father finally whispered.

He stayed silent. His father had said that before too. He wanted to believe his father. He really did, but he had believed the first time and the second time and even the third. Now, he wasn't sure he had it in him to believe anymore.

The words he had rehearsed in his mind the night before slipped in and out of his thoughts. He had tried to convince himself that it would be easy. He had no idea what made him think it might be.

"Listen," He began, "I've saved up enough money ta buy a train ticket ta New Mexico and enough ta rent a place ta sleep for a few weeks. It'll last me 'til I can find a job."

His father leaned back in his chair. There was a stunned look on his face. It was something he had not planned on. Something that made him hesitate.

"What 'bout us? I though we were gonna go inta business togetha."

The question had thrown all hus carefully rehearsed lines out the window.

"I thought so too." He said, winging it. "When I was twelve."

His father looked crushed.

"I turn eighteen in June. I ain't a kid no more. I can't sell pape's foreva."

His father wiped at his nose with the back of his hand. He knew it was something his Pops did when he was uncomfortable.

"Well," His father began slowly. "Youse gotta do what's best for youse."

His head snapped up. His eyes met his father's, eyes that were so much like his. He had thought that if for some reason his father understood, he would feel better. Now that he was here in the moment, his father's approval made him somehow feel worse.

"If youse think I'm a waste a time, den there's no reason ta stay hea anymore, is dere?" There was no heat in his father's voice. Perhaps only a little disappointment in himself.

He wanted to tell his father that he wasn't a disappointment, that he loved him and that he hoped maybe one day they could go into business together. He wanted to say that one day, he knew his father would get out of prison, and that he would be there to celebrate with him, but before that, he wanted to see the world. He wanted to say all of it. He had practiced saying all of it, but his throat was closed too tightly for speech.

A part of his heart, the part closest to the pit of his stomach, had tied itself in a knot. At he sat there, he began to wonder why he wanted to go so badly in the first place. He wondered if it was just a childish dream. His father was not a waste of time, but he wasn't sure he had another shot left to give him. After all, didn't the phrase go '_three strikes and you're out_'? He said nothing and scratched at the table with his nail. He wished he could smoke in here. Or perhaps, have a drink.


	3. Have a Drink

Spot Conlon stared down into his glass. It was filled with an amber-colored liquid that promised a few hours of sweet oblivion. His own blue eyes stared back at him. He could see the pain and fear in them. It was something he had trained his eyes not to show anyone, ever. The fact that he could see it now infuriated him. Not wishing to see it any longer, he raised the glass and drained it. The empty, clear glass reflected nothing.

* * *

He stared up at the old house. It was small, but respectable. It had once been a home, but now- Now there were no lights on. It was not welcoming, like a home should be; like it used to be.

When his mother had been alive there had always been a lamp waiting on the sideboard next to the door. He could always see the light from the street. If it glowed brightly, she had just set it there. He would enter the house to the delicious smell of dinner cooking, and his mother and father would be laughing, waiting for him to start eating. If the lamp glowed dimly, he was late. He would probably receive a lecture about how she worried about him, even though she knew he could take care of himself, and they still would have waited dinner on him.

Now, there was no lamp lit at all. There was no dinner being cooked, no laughing voices from the kitchen. All that was left was his father, sitting in her old rocking chair, probably too drunk to recognize him.

It hadn't always been that way. His father had gotten on fine for a little while. She had always said they were too much alike for their own good. She had always said they were both tough, mean and arrogant, but she had always said it with a smile.

Neither of them had thought she would die. She had been tough, mean and arrogant too. She never told either one of them that she was sick. They had noticed some days she was a little paler than usual, some days she barely fought back when they teased her, but she had waved them off when they asked.

He knew her death had affected his father. For a time, he put on a smile, went to work and tried to cook, something neither of them were good at. When he had lost his job though, everything had spiraled down. He had looked for another, but as he looked he had started drinking.

Nowadays, Spot would come home to the quiet house, put one of his father's arms around his shoulders and help him to bed. His father would always pat him on the head and call him a '_good boy_', like a dog that had learned a trick. Regardless, he'd smile at his father and wish him goodnight.

He sighed as he stared at the house. He found the key in his pocket and turned it over and over in his fingers. He didn't really want to go inside. There was nothing for him in there. He wished his mother was still alive. He wondered vaguely to himself what had made him think of her as he fitted the key in the door and pushed it open.

The lamp sat dusty and unused on the sideboard. The kitchen was darkened. The only noise came from the right of him where her rocking chair creaked on the old floorboards. He made for it. There were several bottles scattered around it, some old; some new.

"Pops? I'm home."

His father was not in the chair. The window nearby stood open and the light breeze set the curtains billowing and the chair in motion.

"Pops?" He called.

His feet led him to the kitchen where he at last found his father, but not in the way he had expected. His father hung from the ceiling by a thick rope around his neck. His head fell awkwardly on his shoulder. There was a smashed whiskey bottle and a over-turned chair beneath him. His knees buckled, his stomach twisted and his heart jumped up into the region of his throat.

"Pops..."

His knees hit the floor with an echoing thud in the quiet house, but he did not feel it. As close as he had been to tears earlier, they did not come now. He simply stared at his father and knelt on the floor.

Minutes or maybe hours later, he noticed to single piece of paper on the table. When he plucked up enough courage and strength to stand, he saw it had only two sentences on it.

I'm sorry.

Be stronger than me.

* * *

He did not know when the bartender had refilled his glass, but he found himself once again staring into his own blue eyes. His was disgusted by the things he saw in them, so he drained the glass again.

'Be stronger than me.' He thought wildly. 'So much for fulfilling my father's last wishes. Sorry Pops, can't be somethin' I ain't.'


	4. Can't Be Somethin' I Ain't

"Anythin' else ya highness?" He asked with a hint of mocking to his voice as he flicked the cigarette away.

"Yes, as a matter of fact. I want to see what you look like without that patch on."

For a full second he stared at her.

"No." He answered firmly.

"Why not?" She pouted immediately, her green eyes once again becoming round and soft.

"I haven't taken this thing off since I first put it on."

"So?"

For some reason, her request irked him. Some things were just going too far. He got to his feet, leaving her on the park bench half hoping she wouldn't follow.

"Oh come on, please?"

He had opened his mouth to answer again when he literally bumped into a friendly and familiar face. His hands reached out automatically to steady the boy who had almost over-balanced.

"Sorry. Didn't see ya."

"Hey, don't worry 'bout it. How ya doin' guys?"

The new boy waved off nearly being knocked to the ground and smiled at the pair of them.

"Fine, except Blink here refuses to show me his face without the patch." She said, glaring at Kid and hardly looking at the newcomer.

"Oh, well-" He hesitated, unsure of how to answer such a statement which would clearly put him in the middle of some sort of lovers quarrel. "I ain't eva seen him without it either." He settled on, finally.

"I don't see what the big deal is anyways." She said airily. "It's not like you're crippled."

Blink actually closed his eye at her words. He opened his mouth to berate her, but could not come up with any words. When he opened his eye again it was to stare at Crutchy with an apology written all over his knit eyebrows and frowning mouth.

Crutchy simply smiled a knowing smile at Blink. It was one that told him clearly that Crutchy hadn't really taken offense. Blink could tell he was slightly annoyed at her choice of words, but the sort of girls Blink usually hung around with were not known for their brains.

"No, I s'pose not." He said softly to her as she obliviously stared at Blink, hearing only that the new boy agreed with her. "I'll see youse two lata."

He stumped away and Blink let him get out of earshot before he rounded on her.

"Do youse even listen ta yaself? Do youse even know what youse jus' said?"

He had gestured after Crutchy with a wave of his hand and her beautiful, if sometimes, vacant green eyes stared after him.

"What's gotten into youse lately anyways? Youse want me ta quit smokin' and everythin'. Dere's gonna be some things 'bout me dat youse can't change, ya know."

He thought he saw some faint embarrassment in her eyes, but he pushed it from his mind and went rushing on.

"I ain't perfect, but I'm happy enough tha way I am. If youse is lookin' for '_perfect_' maybe youse oughta look somewhere else." He turned his back on her resolutely, daring her to walk away.

Clearly, she had been shocked by his words. When she spoke though, her voice was nothing like he thought it would be. He thought she would still be angry, thought he would hear a sharp edge to her words. He thought she would say they were through.

"Blink?" Her voice was soft and hesitant, almost afraid.

He turned to face her with confusion clouding his single blue eye. His eyebrows arched involuntarily and his mouth hung open a little.

"I'm sorry. I don't know what's the matter with me. I don't want to change you, because I like you the way you are. And I know I don't want to be without you."

Blink blinked. Until this very moment, he really had no idea where he stood with her. When he had met her, she had seemed like a wonderful fling. Someone to spend some time with in the park, laughing and smiling at each other. Someone to kiss on the roof in the moonlight and whisper to her how beautiful she was. If he was honest with himself though, he had expected her to go the way all the other girls had, which was to say quickly and with with a few angry words. Perhaps even, today.

However, here she was, asking him to stay with her. It was a strange feeling for him. He had little to no idea what girls saw in him in the first place, why so many agreed to spend time with him. He had no money, he couldn't buy them flowers and candy. He couldn't take them anywhere much nicer than the park. He couldn't play any instruments for them. He wasn't a particularly good dancer. He didn't even have two eyes. Yet, she was here.

In that single moment, he realized she simply had to like him just the way he was. He realized she was not like any of the other girls he had ever met before. Those ones had found out who he really was and decided they didn't like him. He realized he knew so little about her. He had no idea what made her different from them, and suddenly he wanted to know. He realized that there was nothing more he wanted in the world than to spend a few more hours with her.

The knowledge washed over him like a crashing wave, making him a little light-headed and weak-kneed. He felt stunned and as if he really were under water, his lungs had involuntarily stopped breathing.

In the wake of his long silence, her beautiful green eyes dulled and she turned disappointedly from him with her head hung. His brain, working slowly, took a moment to register she was moving away from him. Then, like high voltage through water, he reacted instinctively.

His hand reached out and gripped her by the elbow. He spun her back towards him slightly more roughly than he had meant to, crushing her to his chest. His head dipped down to meet her full, pink lips, and this time he voluntarily dove back into the water.

It seemed as if no other sense mattered to him except touch. His eye slid closed and all light was extinguished. Sound simply stopped, or perhaps his ears simply heard nothing. He was absorbed in the feel of her soft skin, the feathery light tickle of her hair on the back of his hand and warmth of her lips against his. He felt a little wetness on his own cheek and realized it was coming from hers, but he felt her smile into his lips as they parted briefly only to meet again.

The only thing that crossed his mind, the only thing that mattered, was the knowledge that he didn't want to be without her.


	5. Without Her

"Can I get'cha anythin' else, sweetie?"

Mush shook his head up into her radiant smile.

"See ya tomorrow." He said cheerfully as he made to get up.

"Actually, youse won't."

Her words completely arrested him movement and he stopped halfway to his feet with his knees bent at an awkward angle and his head bowed a little.

"Guess I forgot ta tell youse." She said with a faint giggle. "I'm leavin'. Today's my last day hea at work."

"Why?" He whispered, finally finding his voice and standing straight.

"Well, it's sorta a long story."

Mush blinked at her a few times and then motioned her into the seat across from him. She looked around a little hesitantly and then slid into the chair and he resat himself too.

"My family owns a farm on Staten Island. When I left it wasn't doin' so well. I have five little brothers and sisters so there were alot of mouths ta feed, ya know?"

Mush shrugged and nodded. He didn't really know, but he could understand.

"Well, I offered ta move ta tha city and get a job. My parents refused at first, but it was one less mouth ta feed and I send money home when I can. In the end, I won and here I am."

She spread her arms wide as if embracing the city. It was clear from her forced smile, that was so much unlike her real one, that she did not want to leave.

"Well, turns out my father is sick. My mother can't manage taking care of him and five little kids, plus running a farm. So I've got to go back."

"But-"

"Oh, I don't really mind. I don't wanna leave, but I can't turn my back on them."

Mush nodded, digesting the truth of her words. He would probably do the same thing, if he had a family, that is. Besides that, he was in no place to tell her what to do. After all, they barely knew each other.

"I think I'll miss youse tha most. You've been my favorite regular for a while now."

She smiled. This time it was the real smile that lit up her face. Despite the fact that he felt like the bottom was dropping out of his heart, he smiled back at her. Her smile just did that to him.

Inside though, his brain was screaming at him. 'Tell her you'll miss her! Tell her youse come hea jus' ta see her! Tell her ya name at least! Tell her youse want her ta stay!'

"I don't think I eva got ya name." Was all he managed.

"Oh! I'm Tiz."

"Tiz?"

"My sister, she's four. She couldn't say Liz and the name stuck." She explained with a shrug. "What 'bout you?"

"Mush."

"And youse made fun a my name?"

He found himself laughing. Her laugh was like a breath of fresh air. So much better than her smile.

Just then there was a shout from across the restaurant and Tiz leapt up and hurried toward her boss. Clearly, he felt her little break had been long enough. He watched her go, wanting to call her back, but every step she took was farther away from him and every second was one too long to call her back from.

Then suddenly, as if someone hit him across the back of the head, he realized she was walking out of his life.

"Wait!" He managed to call breathlessly.

She turned, completely caught off-guard.

"I gotta say dat I been comin' ta eat hea 'cause a youse. So dat I could see youse everyday. See ya smile."

Her mouth had fallen open and her eyes widened. He held his breath, despite the fact that his lungs demanded oxygen.

"Oh, Mush." She sighed. "Dat's tha sweetest thing I eva heard."

She looked as though she might cry and suddenly he worried he hadn't thought this through. The last thing he wanted to do was make her sad and he knew she didn't have a choice but to leave.

"Will youse write ta me? I'll give youse my address." She said and smiled.

He swallowed and his lungs expanded gratefully again. Her father couldn't stay sick forever, maybe she'd be back, and until that time he'd wait. At least for now, he hadn't let her pass him by, but there was so much still he had yet to tell her.


	6. Yet To Tell Her

The train whistle blew loudly with a spurt of thick steam. She stepped up onto the first step of of the stairs and then stopped abruptly when he stopped moving behind her and the hand that she was holding came to a jerking stop.

"I ain't goin' wit'cha."

For a moment, she stared at him, then sighed.

"No, I thought it was too easy."

"Youse neva could spot a bluff."

She almost smiled and then her eyebrows knit.

"Vito-" Her voice was hesitant. "The men you owed all that money to-"

"They didn't hurt'cha did dey?" He asked quickly.

"No. I- I had to hock tha ring."

For the space of a heartbeat, he balked. He knew what it meant, but at the look on her face he hoisted a smile on his.

"Well, we was too young ta get married anyways and it oughta have been enough money."

She nodded, still looking retchedly upset.

"And Vito-" She hesitated even longer this time. "Tim Elville has asked me to marry him."

His eyes dropped from her face and he licked his suddenly dry lips.

"He's a good man. He'll take care a youse."

"He's wonderful." She said quickly. "But I'd rather stay hea with you."

For one wild moment he considered pulling her off the train into his arms. Then he heaved a sigh.

"I ain't stop gamblin'. I tried tha hardest I eva tried in my life for youse. I don't deserved a goil like youse. I'm jus' gonna do it ta youse all ova again."

"What if I don't care?"

"I do."

"I knew you'd say that."

She didn't cry, but gripped his hand tighter and leaned down to kiss his forehead. His eyes slid closed as her lips touched his skin. Then she whisked off into the train. He thought perhaps she had began to cry.

He heaved another great sigh and shoving his hands deep in his pockets he turned from the train. A knock on the window of the nearest compartment made him turn back. The window only opened way at the top, so they were separated by a thick sheet of glass, but she pressed a hand to it. He put his own up to it. She mouthed three short, distinctive words and then the train gave a lurch and started to move. His hand slid across the glass, away from hers and a tear leaked from one of her eyes and rolled down her cheek. He wanted desperately to be able to wipe it away, but could not.

All he could do is stand on the platform with his hands in his pockets and wish he were someone, anyone else.


	7. Anyone Else

"Can I ask youse a question?"

He rolled his eyes. The kid just had and he was always so full of damn questions.

"What's a 'rapist'?"

He froze. That kind of question he hadn't the slightest idea of how to deal with. His eyes slid down into the right corners of their sockets to stare sideways at the kid.

"Where did'ja hear dat?" He asked elusively.

The kid stared down at the ground and scuffed the toe of his shoe into a patch of brown snow.

"I don't think I was s'posed ta hear. My Ma shouted it at my Grandma one night when I was s'posed ta be in bed. She said I was the son of a rapist."

His eyes widened for the space of a heartbeat and then, as the kid looked up at him, he quickly blanked his face and looked away.

"It's bad isn't it?"

He sighed and shut his eyes. He couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Yea."

"I thought so."

"Is it, like, Refuge bad?"

He bowed his head. The kid had absolutely no concept. His mind raced. What on earth could he tell him? He wasn't even sure if the kid knew how to make a baby.

"Look kid, I dunno if I'm tha one who should tell youse."

The kid shrugged and scuffed his toe in the snow again. He looked so young and innocent in that moment that he almost hated himself for being so annoyed with the kid all morning. He knelt down so that he could be on eye level with the boy and grabbed his shoulders to face him.

"We all have reasons we're hea. I ain't sayin' yours is any betta or worse than anyone elses. You'll understand when ya older. 'Til den, youse jus' stick wit' me, kid. I'll look afta yas, alrigh'?"

The kid grinned at him and somehow, once again, he felt better. He wasn't sure if it had been the right thing to do. Maybe he should have told him. Regardless, he hadn't lied, and he knew at that moment that he really did want the kid around. As much as he was annoyed sometimes, he had grown fond of the kid. He was like a little brother and he knew he always would look out for him. He would always be there.

* * *

_A.N. I'm not entirely sure that Skittery's relationship with the kid was ever really touched on in the movie. Maybe I've just read so many fanfics that I imagined it's really there. It's why I didn't give them names, but if I have stolen their relationship from someone please let me know. I like to give credit where credit is due. Speaking of which, I don't own Newsies. Also, did you like it? Hit the review button and praise or curse me as you see fit. -Insom_


	8. Darkest Hours Come Just Before Dawn

_A.N. I thought this story was complete. My brain and fingers decided otherwise. To love97 and passionate fire: Thank you. This is for you. More to come, keep reading. Also, I still don't own Newsies._

* * *

The day had been sunny and almost warm. None of them would have really called the weather '_nice_', but after five months of cold, unforgiving New York City winter, it was nice enough. The boys had smiles on their faces and those fortunate enough to have extra layers of clothing had dispensed with them. Their feelings seemed mirrored in the city itself. Tiny hints of green hope could be spotted amidst the dull browns and grays of the streets. Life and happiness seemed to be returning to the city. It seemed to be waking from a long sleep. It was a welcome and long awaited change.

That evening, however, the fog rolled in. It was a dense, smothering fog that seemed to come from the ground itself rather than the sky. The sun had sunk low, disappeared over the horizon and took all the weak heat of the day with it. As the moon tracked slowly upwards, a chill spread. The boys reapplied their layers, but their smiles stayed fixed. They were determined not to be fooled by the weather. They knew better days were on the way.

He sat on the Lodging House steps with a few of the other boys and watched the earth-bound clouds drift in and settle, as if declaring the streets their own. With a sort of proud defiance they laughed their way into the steadily growing darkness. The streets did not belong to the fog; the streets belonged to them, to him. As long as he was still there, the streets were his.

Oddly enough, he didn't know why he was still there. He had not asked himself that question because he would have to answer himself. He lived day to day, with the knowledge that a train ticket to Santa Fe cost $5.50 and with eight dollars in bills knotted in the back of his red bandanna. He had not left yet. He could, he had the means; but he hadn't.

Though the other boys sat mere feet from him, he could only make out the outlines of his friends by the dim light cast from inside the Lodging House door. His eyes took in the glowing red ember of a cigarette here, a strong chin thrust forward with a joking insult there. His ears picked up their familiar voices. They were his newsies, his brothers, and they were the reasons he hadn't left yet. It was the same reason as last time. If he left, he'd owe them all an explanation first and he didn't think he could look any of them in the eyes and tell them he was leaving them.

All of them felt, rather than saw the stranger approach. He was a mere shadow, a ghost that was less solidly real than the fog. The shadow hesitated just beyond the reach of the light from the doorway. Either the fog was unwilling to relinquish it's shadow to their eyes or the shadow did not want to leave the fog. As if the stranger might really be a ghost, a ripple of fear ran through all the newsies. Their chatter and laughter died.

"Who's dere?" One of the newsies asked the shadow.

"I'm lookin' for Jack Kelly."

"Neva hoird a him." Said another voice very close to his ear.

He heard the murmur of agreement run through his brothers and felt a sudden surge of fondness. He belonged to them just as they belonged to him, and they were not about to give him up to some shadow that easily. The ghost chuckled.

"He's hea. 'Less he's gone ta New Mexico already."

He was on his feet before any of the boys had a chance to stop him. He recognized that voice now, though he hadn't heard it in a couple of months. It really was a ghost and at the same time, it wasn't. His brain seemed sluggish and slow, either unable or unwilling to process the input of his senses properly. His feet seemed to understand though. They received their instructions and understood his heart. They moved him without conscious consent down the steps to stand in the fog.

* * *

His feet brought him to a sudden halt and he glanced up, recognizing the place at once even through the thick fog. He hadn't really been paying attention to where he was going. He never did when he was alone. He wasn't afraid of the Brooklyn streets in the dark of night. He wasn't afraid of any thug or drunk that prowled them. He wasn't afraid of anything.

Except this place.

'_Damn feet, impulsive as always_.' He cursed himself, inwardly.

His feet had a mind of their own. The idea sounded strange, even to him, but it was true. He willed his feet to move on, to take him far from here, but it seemed as though they had decided not to heed his brain.

To those who _thought_they knew him, he was a model of calm collectedness, of level-headed coolness. It was the way he wanted others to see him. So he had tailored his facial expressions and habits to reflect it. It was sort of like offering candy to those who would play with him.

Few knew that it was an act. Those that did, knew there was smoldering anger and deep-seated volatility hidden just beneath his ice-blue eyes. Fewer still, knew he was incredibly impulsive. Sometimes too much so for his own good. Over the years it had worked more often to his benefit than detriment, and after all, it was part of what made him who he was. He had learned not to second guess his feet's hunches.

His feet had led him here tonight.

Still, he hesitated. This was not like him. Even his unruly feet knew he hated this place. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end. There was a prickle on his skin. He supposed it was fear, though he couldn't be sure. He had experienced too little of that particular emotion to be positive. His brain told him that it could force his feet away. He could turn around and make them walk away, but he couldn't let his feet win. His key hung around his neck like it always did, a guilty reminder of his past. He had never told anyone what the key unlocked, though no one had ever asked.

Standing there, staring up at the house, he remembered exactly how he had felt all those other times he had stood in the same place. Suddenly, he was thirteen years old again and he thought he saw the faint glimmer of light from the lamp that had always stood by the door.

He shook himself mentally. It couldn't possibly be. No one had been in the house for years. Not since the bulls had come to take his father away and shuttle him off to some orphanage, not that he had let them do the latter.

He took the key from around his neck and fitted it in the lock. The door swung open. The lamp by the door _was_ lit. For a moment he stood in the doorway, rooted to the floor. There were delicious smells coming from the kitchen.

He wondered if he was hallucinating. It was exactly how he remembered it. He slipped silently towards the kitchen and poked his head around the corner. His eyes avoided the place he had last seen his father. A woman stood by the stove. His mother? No.

He must have made a noise because she uttered a soft cry and whirled to face him. Her voice was panicked. Her hands fumbled with something. A pistol.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

The gun looked old, but serviceable, and he held his hands up by his shoulders in a gesture of surrender. He meant her no harm, he merely wanted to know what on earth she was doing in his old house.

"Take 'er easy."

"Who are you?"

"I used ta live hea." He said smoothly.

He was sure she had never fired that gun before, mostly because she had not cocked it and she was aiming somewhere over his left shoulder. Still, he could see her shaking visibly and was not about to risk anything. As his blue eyes narrowed and he looked closer, he noticed her eyes were fixed at the same place she pointed the gun at, which was decidedly not at him.

Her eyes were a light brown, perhaps hazel, but there was something strange about them. They were glassy and dull, maybe the right word was: vacant. With mounting assuredness, he waved one of his hands through the air. She, nor her eyes reacted to the motion.

"What do you want?"

* * *

He wanted to be able to give her diamonds to match the sparkles in her wide, green eyes. He wanted to buy her roses to put in her hair, pale pink ones, the same color as her cheeks, but that would dull in comparison to her beauty. He wanted to gift her with candy as sweet as her smile. He wanted to pull the moon down from the night's sky and give it to her.

He couldn't.

All he could do was offer her his hand and pull her close to him, swaying in time to the distant church bells. The moon overhead stayed fixedly in the sky, and the jingling of a few coins in his pockets as they moved reminded him that he couldn't buy her anything.

His single, blue eye slid closed. He did not need sight in this moment. She was beautiful to him, but it was far more than her dazzling emerald eyes, her pale, perfect skin and her pouty, pink, heart-shaped lips. His remaining senses drank in the real beauty of her.

His hands slid along her smooth, velvety-soft skin. One of them found the small of her back pressed her body against his. She was soft and warm. The other tangled in her long blond hair, his fingertips trailing over the flesh at the nape of her neck and making her shiver slightly in his arms. He inhaled the sweet, flowery smell of her as his head dipped down to capture her faintly spicy, delicious lips.

She made him feel alive. She lit all his senses on fire. When he held her, he was the most important, the happiest and the luckiest man in New York City. The feeling filled him with warmth. He was a hot air balloon that might have drifted away if she hadn't been there gripping him so tightly. He prayed she felt the same. He wanted her to feel that same happy warmth. He really did want to give her the moon.

In the space of that perfect moment on the deserted rooftop, her green eyes met his lone blue one and she smiled. It was a smile that told him she didn't care. She didn't want things. She wanted only him and even possessing the moon would not mean as much as a simple moment with him, swaying to the church bells. He would never forget this moment.

* * *

"Almost forgot. C'mere a second." Kloppman was pointing to him.

He hesitated with one foot on the bottom step of the stairs. He had been about to follow the other boys up to the bunk room. He knew they would be avidly discussing Jack's recent visitor and he wanted to be there to guess with them about who it had been. With a bit of disappointment he turned back towards the desk.

Kloppman was rummaging through stacks of paper and books on the counter. The old man was slightly forgetful and disorganized, but endearing. He tried hard to keep the impatience out of his voice.

"What is it, Klopp?"

"Youse got a letter."

His expression changed immediately from one of annoyed politeness to avid anticipation. He actually banged his fist down once on the desk with impatience as Kloppman grinned and continued his search.

"Hold ya horses, now." The old man sighed as he at last extracted the envelope and waved it in the air.

It was, indeed, a letter and he recognized the handwriting.

"Well, open it up and read it, Klopp."

He had to have the old man read her letters. Newspaper print was one thing, but she wrote in a curly, loopy script that even Kloppman had trouble deciphering at times. The old man slit the envelope open and held the letter towards the dim light from the lamp on the desk.

"Dear Mush,"

Kloppman's voice was wheezy and hesitant, but he could almost hear her voice speak the words to him.

"By tha time youse read dis, I'll prolly be back in New York City."

Kloppman paused to look up at him. He knew there was a silly, sloppy grin on his face, but he could not hide his amazed excitement.

"My family is fine now. There's nothing else I can do hea, so I'm moving back ta tha city. I wrote ta my old boss and got word just today dat he's willing ta hire me back on. So I hope ta see youse soon for lunch. Love from, Tiz."

Kloppman finished with a bit of a puzzled look. He actually turned the letter over in his hands, looking for the rest of it. All her other letters had been long and this one was decidedly short and lacking detail. He felt the same way, almost cheated. His eyebrows knit and he stared at Kloppman.

"Well, she wrote '_love_'." Kloppman said, catching the look on his face.

"_Love from_." He corrected.

"Still wrote it, didn't she?"

He allowed the tiniest of grins to grace one corner of his mouth, but neither her love nor the fact she was back in the city could assuage his overall disappointment and feeling of unease.

* * *

It was not the look she had expected to see on his face. Looking out across the platform, she had spotted him at once, even amid the crowd of late night passengers. He was leaning casually against a lamppost, one hand deep in his pocket, the other cradling a cigar as tenderly as a child. His eyebrows were furrowed deeply and his forehead was lined. His mouth turned down in each corner and his brown eyes looked so serious.

In an instant, the way they had last parted sprang into her mind as it hadn't since two days ago when she had hastily sent the telegram and packed a few things. She knew he had his own problems, ones of finance. She was sure he had not lied to her when he had said he hadn't stopped gambling. She knew that adding her own problems would not make his life any easier.

In that instant, she considered slipping back into the shadows and letting him think she had never come.

A moment later, his eyes panned down the length of the train and saw her. He smirked and his brown eyes danced. The look made her heart beat faster against her ribs and she convinced herself that his expression moments before had been a trick of the thick steam from the train and the chill fog on the platform.

"I got ya telegram. I'm hea, but why are youse hea?"

For a moment, she ignored him, folding herself into his arms. She felt him hesitate. Felt his arms raise instinctively to hold her close, but halt just before clasping her as if unsure if he should. She contented herself with breathing him in. He smelled of cigar smoke and a little sweat, but it was comforting. It was exactly the way she remembered.

She felt one of his hands tug gently at the bow in her hair. It was something he had used to do often, but a long time ago. She smiled into his chest at the memory and that he too remembered.

"I couldn't do it."

"Do what?"

* * *

"Youse want me ta do what?"

"Come ta my Grandma's house wit' me." The kid repeated softly without meeting his eye.

He crossed his arms behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. The kid stood with his feet on the lower bunk and his head only barely peeked up over the top bunk where he lay.

"I ran away, but I go back sometimes 'cause I know she worries 'bout me. I thought maybe if you came wit' me, she'd see she doesn't have ta worry, ya know?"

He studied the kid surreptitiously. Sometimes he had to remind himself that the kid was only eight. Sometimes he seemed a lot older and wiser than he should be for his age. It probably had something to do with facing the streets on his own.

"Please?"

"Aw jeez, kid." He sighed.

There was little he could do to argue. It was a difficult request to refuse. Still, he didn't really like the idea of drinking tea and smiling politely at an old lady while she told him about her seven cats.

"Fine." He said heavily.

"Thanks a lot!"

The kid beamed at him and his head disappeared from next to the bunk as he jumped down. He sighed again heavily as he imagined how awkward it was going to be for him.


	9. Ghost of a Chance

The fog had not lifted and on top of that, it had begun to rain in the early morning hours. The deluge had stopped before they left the Lodging House that morning, but the streets were still wet. Puddles lay deep on the cobblestones and moisture clung to everything, including them as they trudged through the chill mist.

He walked with his hands in his pockets, his eyes on his boots and his black cowboy hat pulled low over his face. They were subtle, subconscious signs he was displaying. His quick strides, his hunched shoulders, everything about him that morning screamed '_back off_' and the rest of the boys heard it loud and clear.

He knew they were curious, knew they were dying to know, but he could not spare them a moment. His thoughts were far away, lost in the previous night's fog, wandering the darkened streets with a ghost from his past.

_"How'd youse know where ta find me?"_

_"Youse mentioned tha place once or twice, don'cha 'member?"_

He had nodded then and hadn't pursued it, but now in the light of day, he could not remember ever having mentioned it.

_"So youse is out?"_

_"Yea, 'most a year early. Good behavior, ya know?"_

That had struck him as odd too. His father was not a shining example of '_good behavior_'. Charges with names like: '_Drunk and Disorderly Conduct_', '_Resisting Arrest_' and '_Assault_' dotted his father's rap sheet, some of which had put him behind bars in the first place.

'_Still_,' he thought with a wry smile, '_Resisting Arrest'_ and '_Inciting to Riot_' appeared on his own rap sheet. '_Like father like son_.' And he supposed he could act cool and lay low sometimes as well.

He sighed and pushed his hat back off his head. He did not know why he was dwelling on the little things. They were minuscule in the grand scheme of the previous night's conversation.

"Step up, c'mon now, buy ya pape's."

The kind-faced man that had replaced the weasel was waving him forward. He always forgot the man's name. Something like 'Sliddell' or 'Sidewell'. 'Mr. Weasel' had been so easy to remember. He slid a quarter beneath the bars and smiled to the man, who smiled back and handed him a stack of papers.

He heard a slight murmur run through the group of boys behind him. It was an unprecedented move for him to take less than a hundred papers in the morning. They knew it and he knew it, but there was no chance that he would sell a hundred papers today with his mind so preoccupied.

As he made his way down the steps with the polite smile still etched on his face, one of his boys finally took a swing.

"So who was dat guy last night?"

Snitch clapped him on the shoulder as he trotted up along side him. He supposed the boy had taken his smile and hat-less-ness for an invitation. He momentarily wished he had left his hat on his head.

"My fadda." He admitted with a sigh.

The question had been a straightforward one and he had a straightforward answer. It was not one he was ashamed to give. He was not ashamed of his father. It was just that there were still bits of the previous night's conversation he had yet to work out in his own mind and he knew Snitch was going to ask him questions that he had no answers for.

"So what did he want?"

His mind ran back. He had stopped to light a cigarette when his father had really voiced what he had come for.

"_So I though, now I'm out, we's could make good on dat business partnership we'd always planned."_

"He wants to buy a distillery and sell booze ta local bars. And he wants me ta join him. Sorta a father son business deal."

Snitch nodded. The look on his face made it clear that he thought it sounded like a decent proposal. He could not help but disagree and the look on his face was just as clear.

"But- what?" Snitch asked, seeing his expression.

He took a breath and held it deep in his lungs. It was the same thing he had done the night before when his father had said what had truly been making him uneasy ever since then.

"_Last time ya came ta visit, ya said somethin' 'bout New Mexico. I been thinkin', we's should do it. Togetha. Get away from these city streets. It'll be like a fresh start for both a us."_

"He wants us ta move out west. Start up the business dere." He told Snitch in a rush of exhalation.

Snitch knit his eyebrows. He knew Snitch did not like the idea of him leaving New York. It was clear from the look on his face, but as the Newsies did, he did not judge or offer advice. Newsies listened to each other, would help if they were asked to, but they let each other live their own lives. Each of them knew without being told that they looked out for one another, but they also looked out for themselves first.

Over the years, older Newsies had left. Younger ones had taken their places. There was a cycle to it. It happened. But he was their first leader and if he left, he would be the first leader they had lost. They had grown accustomed to looking to the smiling newsie with the single, almost permanently arched eyebrow and his cowboy hat for leadership. When, as a group, they didn't know what to do, all eyes would turn and he would make the decision. If he left, they would lose a part of who they were.

As seemingly arrogant as it sounded in his own head. He knew the truth just as Snitch did. He also knew he did not really want to leave. It was why there was still eight dollars knotted in the back of his red bandanna. It wasn't the power or that he had boys who looked up to him. It was simply that the Newsies were his friends, his brothers. And a brother would not leave his brothers if they needed him.

"So ya gonna do it?" Snitch's question brought him back to reality with a bump.

"I dunno." He said slowly. "I don't think so."

"Why not?"

He hesitated. Just as he had the night before. He wanted to voice the reasons why not. He wanted to mention the fact that his father had been in and out of jail for the past six years of his life, that he didn't completely trust him to stay out and that their time apart hadn't exactly brought them closer. He wanted to say that all of his father's previous convictions had occurred under the influence of alcohol and he couldn't help but think they shouldn't go into a business that made his father's weakness so readily available. He wanted to tell Snitch that there were other reasons he didn't want to leave New York City and that they concerned the Newsies, but he didn't.

"I'm sure youse'll figure it out." Snitch said in an attempt to cheer him up. He grinned half-heartedly, appreciating the attempt, but not wishing to tell his friend that he hadn't really helped.

Snitch slipped off with another clap to his shoulder and a reassuring smile. He knew the boy was probably filling in other curious newsies at that very moment. He was slightly annoyed, but he didn't really mind. It meant he wouldn't have to explain it all again to anyone else.

"Good headline taday." Crutchy said as he stumped past.

He glanced down at the papers he discovered he was holding and pulled one from the stack without much interest. He glanced at it and had raised his eyes to call after Crutchy in agreement when the meaning of the words sunk in. He looked down again. The black, bold lettering screamed at him.

**Prison Break, Four Criminals on the Loose**

And beneath that were four mug shots, one of which was all too familiar. He did not need to read the article. In fact, he couldn't. His head was spinning as he stared down at the paper, taking in no more meaning than he had the first time he had read the words. He stood stock still on the cold, unforgiving street.


	10. Feet, Don't Fail Me Now

For the second time in two days, he stood on the same street. He was positive what had brought him here this time, though. The strange turn of events last night. Well, that and his feet, and he trusted his feet, trusted his intuition. His feet had barely ever led him wrong before.

With a odd sense of irony, he knocked on the door. It was something he had never done before. It was his house, after all, though he had not lived in it for years.

"It's unlocked, Morgan."

He heard the shout from within the small house and hesitated. She thought he was someone else. He hardly wanted to surprise her again. Last night, after having a gun pointed in his direction for a full five minutes, he had done the only thing he could think of, and simply backed out of the house. Today though, she would know someone was here.

He turned the knob and let himself in, stopping on the threshold.

"In here."

Her voice had come from his left. She was sitting in the living room, in his mother's old rocking chair, some knitting in her lap. As he stepped into the doorway, she set it away. Her eyes did not look up, but he saw her head turn subtly, training an ear towards him.

"You're the same boy from last night."

He smirked, marveling inwardly.

"Yea, and if we could skip the whole gun thing, I swear I ain't hea ta hoirt'cha."

He saw her try and suppress a smile.

"How did you know I wasn't Morgan, or whoever?"

"Your steps sound different. I'm guessing you're short and kind of skinny."

He rolled his eyes and moved closer to her and into the room, finding the chair opposite her. He did not comment on her pronouncement of his stature.

"Well you're shorter than Morgan. You're steps are lighter and closer together."

He had never really considered how much you could tell about a person just from the sound of their steps.

"So who's Morgan?"

"My brother." She offered immediately. "He hasn't been around much lately. I do hope he's alright. He looks out for me. He's a good brother."

Her face lit with a smile as she talked about him, then as she fell silent the smile faded.

"Sometimes I wish he wouldn't. I know he feels responsible for me and I hate to be a burden."

"Why does he feel responsible?"

"When we were young we used to live out in the country. There was a big blue lake and a giant willow tree on the bank that we used to climb right to the top of and jump from." The smile was back. "One day when I was nine, Morgan pushed me out of the tree and into the lake. I was so surprised that I hit the water with my eyes open. Everything was a little blurry for a few days and then one morning I woke up and I couldn't see anything anymore."

"Oh." He found himself saying lamely.

An '_I'm sorry_' had risen to his lips too, but it was simply not a phrase he uttered. Ever. His tongue could not wrap around the words. She grinned though and he wondered if she had heard it anyways.

"I learned to live with it a long time ago. It's surprising really, how well you can get on without being able to see. I go to the market, buy groceries, clean the house. In a way, I think some things are easier and I think people are easier to understand when you can't see."

"Really?"

Before he had time to lean away, she had leaned closer to him and put a hand to his face. Her soft, smooth fingertips traced his eyebrows, his cheekbones and down his jaw line.

"So serious." She murmured.

Her finger slid along his lips that couldn't help but smirk.

"But with a tiny smile."

She leaned back in her chair. Her eyes seemed to consider him, though he knew she couldn't see him.

"Do you always hide everything behind that mask?"

His mouth opened just a bit as he stared at her.

"Well, it's not hard to guess. You said last night that you used to live here, but when I first got here there was years of dust on everything. I'm guessing something happened here that made you not want to come back for a long time."

He got to his feet and strode away across the room, desiring nothing more than to leave.

"There's a little swagger in your steps too. A leader, are you? Other people look up to you? Probably boys."

He paused to turn his head and look at her. She had gone back to her knitting with unnerving complacency.

"Well, I can see why you hide it."

"What d'ya mean?"

"Well if you have other boys who look up to you, you can't seem weak. You don't think you can tell them '_I have something that bothers me sometimes_' and still keep their respect."

He turned back to face her, but did not return to his chair. For some reason he felt the need to keep some space between them.

"You're-" He hesitated, unable to come up with the right word.

"Perceptive. That's all. I'm not psychic or anything." There was a faint teasing hint to her voice. He was slightly annoyed by it, but still more amazed than anything else.

"Do you know Morgan?" She asked suddenly.

He was startled by the abrupt change in subject, but not unappreciative. He did not like talking about himself. He found himself shaking his head and then mentally chided himself and answered her aloud.

"No."

"He said he was sub-leasing this place. I suppose that means he lied. Unless you don't own this place anymore?"

There was a faint hint of hopefulness to her voice and for a moment he considered lying to her, but he wasn't sure if she'd be able to tell.

"I own it still. I can show ya tha key."

Once again he cringed inwardly. He could not '_show_' her anything. She, thankfully, ignored it.

"My mother died about a year ago and we moved to the city to make it on our own. Morgan found this place. He said he had rent all worked out and that he would take care of it. I think I knew he was lying." She sighed and he watched her fingers flash at her knitting. It was the only part of her that moved. "I don't think he hangs around with the nicest of people. I worry about him sometimes, but I can't really help him. The best I can do is take care of myself so that he doesn't need to worry about me."

She heaved a deep sigh.

"You're still standing there, I know it. If you were going to leave you would have by now. Why don't you come back and sit down."

He smirked and shook his head. She was really quite incredible. He had been contemplating making for the door, but he was rather intrigued by her. She had known before he did that he was not about to leave. He crossed the living room floor again and sat back down.

"So, do you wanna tell me what happened here?" Her voice was soft and cajoling.

He found he wanted to tell her, but he could not find the words.

"It's alright. Obviously, it still bothers you to talk about it, so we don't have to. Tell me more about you though."

"Well- what d'ya wanna know?" He asked haltingly.

"Who are these boys? The one's who look up to you."

"Tha Brooklyn Newsies." He said with and odd sense of confirming what she already knew.

"Newsies?"

"Newspaper boys. We peddle dem on tha streets."

"So, a street gang?"

"Not really. I mean, life can be a bit rough for us. Sometimes we might steal a wallet ta buy food, but we ain't inta nothin' much more than pickpocketing. Maybe a few fist fights here and dere."

"I bet you're a good fighter." She said with a smile.

"And tell me how youse knew dat."

"Well, you must have earned their respect in the first place somehow, and you're carrying a weapon aren't you?"

He tilted his head to the side with an amused smile and his fingers worked his gold-topped cane from his suspenders.

"It's just a walkin' stick. Hea."

His fingers reached out to place the cane in her hands and he watched her fingers fly over the embellished golden ends of it.

"You don't use it for walking though." She said, the slight tease back in her voice.

"No, youse is right. I don't."

She handed his cane back and sat back in her chair. Again, her hazel eyes seemed to contemplate him.

"So, the handsome, cold, respected leader of the Brooklyn Newsies with a past to hide and enough fight to knock out anyone who might try and ask him about it."

There was a smile on her lips and teasing still in her voice. He opened his mouth to retort, found no words there to do so and shut his mouth again. He had never heard a more accurate, succinct description of himself and she had only known him for a few minutes.

"You know, I don't think anyone would think less of you if they found out. Everyone gets sad sometimes."

Despite the fact that he knew she couldn't see him, he could not meet her hazel eyes.

"I still cry, you know."

"Hrm?"

"My eyes don't work, but they still tear up when I'm sad. I think maybe you have a lot in common with my eyes."

Startlingly, he felt a tightening in his chest, as if she had literally squeezed his heart and tears welled in his eyes. He blinked them back.

"I oughta go." He said a little gruffly, getting to his feet.

Her face held a knowing smile.

"You'll come back and visit me, won't you?"

He hesitated.

"Yea." He said finally, and meant it.

"Good."

"Ya know, I neva got ya name."

"Rhiannon."

"It's pretty."

"It's Welsh."

"Ain't ya gonna ask mine?"

She shrugged.

"It's sort of like seeing your face. I don't really need it to know you."

He grinned at her. Then, to his left the front door slammed open. A giant of a man stood there, framed in the doorway. He knew without being told that it was Morgan. He was about to raise a hand to offer a shake to Morgan when the boy rumbled into speech.

"Who are you? What are ya doin' here? Get out!"

He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut short.

"No, Morgan, this is a friend of mine." Rhiannon was on her feet and her words arrested Morgan's angry movement.

His eyes were the same color as hers, but small and set deep in his head. His face turned back with a scowl.

"I still want you out." He said threateningly.

"Hey, take 'er easy. I was jus' leavin'."

He sidestepped Morgan and made for the door. Morgan allowed him passage, but followed him as if wanting to make sure he left. At the door he gave him a slight shove.

"I dunno what you think ya doin', but you stay away from my sister. She has enough problems." He said in the same low, threatening tone as before.

He regained his balanced on the cobblestones and turned to watch the door being slammed in his face. It was an odd feeling to be thrown from his own house, and he didn't have the slightest clue as to what Morgan thought he had done that was so bad.


	11. Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder

"Here."

She dropped a fresh pack of cigarettes on the stone rail of the roof next to his elbow. They had come from the factory where her father worked. He knew he had gotten them for free. She still wrinkled her nose when he smoked them, but she never asked him to put them out anymore. He glanced down at the pack. She had taken it upon herself to decorate the outer packaging with a grease pencil. There were little stars and smiley faces on it. For some reason he couldn't help but grin at the sight of it and he recognized the friendly gesture, but was still slightly annoyed by it.

"He knows you smoke. He said to give them to you."

He raised an eyebrow at her and took out his own pack from his pocket.

"Tell him I don't need his charity." He said popping one out of the pack and sticking it between his teeth.

She rolled her eyes at him, but left the pack where it was.

"My father lost his job at the factory and he's moving to San Fransisco. He says there are more jobs out there."

He stopped with his match halfway to his cigarette to stare at her. She looked upset.

"I want you to come with me."

The information seemed to pass into his brain through his ear and swirl somewhere in the back of his head, making him a little dizzy. It didn't really sink in.

"To San Fransisco?" He asked out of the corner of his mouth that was not still holding his unlit cigarette.

"He says there will be plenty of jobs out there and it's not as though you have anything to stay here for, is there? My father says you can stay with us for a while until you find a job and a place of your own."

Suddenly, he chuckled.

"I'm not goin' ta San Fransisco, Lil." He said quietly.

There was a silence between them that was broken only when his forgotten match burned him and he shook it out with a curse.

"Why not?"

He laughed again and struck another match to light his cigarette with. He was not sure what made the idea sound so ridiculous to him. Her words had been true. He had very little to stay in New York for. He had no real family, his job was not very stable or well-paying and if there was one thing he knew, it was that he did not want to lose her.

But he had the Newsies. Those boys that had stood by him when there had been no one else. The brothers that were not really brothers. The close relationships that none of them referenced with more than backhands across the shoulders and playful slaps to the face. They had been there for him for years and he had know this girl for what? A month?

"Why don't youse stay hea? I'll get a job. A real job, and we'll find a place ta live."

He did not know what made him say it, and he knew she didn't believe him for a second.

"My Dad-" She began, but he waved her off.

"Fuck ya Dad. He don't know what's best for me and maybe he don't know what's best for youse either."

"Why are you so determined to hate my father? He's a good man and he likes you. He wants to help you."

He turned from her so that he wouldn't have to look into her confused green eyes. There was a little bit of hurt in them too.

For a moment he stared out over the rooftops. He had met her father on several occasions. He knew what she said was true. Her father was a good man. Why he had taken an immediate shine to the skinny kid with one eye, neither of them knew.

"Is it because you hated your own father?"

"Stop." His voice had been soft and pleading.

"Tell me about him. Your father." She implored from behind him.

"You don't wanna know."

"Yes, I do. I wanna help you."

"I don't need any help!" He whirled to face her.

Her face look stunned at his outburst, maybe even a little afraid. With a bit of embarrassment he realized how loud his voice had been and how forceful his words must have seemed to her. He turned back to the railing and leaned down on it. The sudden anger he had felt left him as quickly as it had come.

"My Dad was a mean drunk, ya know?"

He exhaled slowly and then looked over his shoulder at her. Her green eyes were sympathetic and she nodded. For some reason, it annoyed him.

"No ya don't."

He watched as her head tilted to the side, she arched one delicate eyebrow and stared at him.

"Look, let's talk 'bout somethin' else." He said slowly, evasively.

"No, no. I wanna know." She said immediately, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"No ya don't." He repeated, this time with a little more heat.

"Yea, I do!" She argued.

He spun on his heel to face her. His anger flared inside him again like a flame.

"No, ya don't wanna hear 'bout how he used to come home and smack my Mum around! Ya don't wanna hear 'bout how it makes ya skin crawl ta hear ya Mum scream!"

Her face had gone pale and she looked uncomfortable. He knew his own face was probably dark, his single eye was narrowed.

"I used ta watch from the crack of my bedroom door while be beat her. I used ta listen as he'd yell at her for not doin' nothin' wrong. I'd start ta shake when I'd hear tha sound of him hittin' her and I'd cry when she'd beg him ta stop."

His blue eye, so much older now, did not cry. They simply stared at her as her green eyes welled with his unshed tears.

"And when I was eleven, I started pickin' fights wit' him when he'd come home drunk, so he'd leave her alone. How do you think I lost my eye? Or didja think it was still dere? Dat it's all a game ta sell more pape's. It was a bottle a whiskey he broke on my face and when I was down on tha floor tryin ta stop tha bleedin', he turned tha rest of the bottle on her."

A tear rolled down each of her cheeks and for a single moment he felt sorry. He was sorry for his mother. He was sorry he hadn't protected her. He was sorry he wasn't dead too, lying beneath the ground with her. And he was sorry he had made the girl in front of him cry.

"You didn't wanna hear dat didja? So don't tell me you do when ya don't."

He turned his back on her and inhaled from his cigarette. He was still angry, but in that moment for some strange reason, all he could think about was his cigarette and how he would never be able to quit smoking them. They meant deep breaths and he needed to take those all the time.

"I'm sorry." She whispered after a long silence.

She put a hand back on his shoulder tentatively, but he did not want comfort just yet and he threw it off with a violent shrug.

"I didn't know."

"Well I never told nobody dat, so how would ya?" His voice was still strained, but the deep drags of his cigarette seemed to be doing him good.

"Look just get outta hea. Move ta San Fran with ya Pops. He'll find a job, you'll find a place. Hell, maybe you'll even meet some nice boy who works in a factory. Someone with two eyes dat has a good job and can afford ta buy youse flowers. He'll prolly like ya Pops and youse won't need ta help him wit' anythin'."

"I don't want flowers." She said softly.

"Sure ya do. Every girl wants flowers and candy and diamonds."

"I'm not like every other girl."

"Ya are ta me."

He heard her turn and walk wordlessly away across the roof, heard her shoes scrape the rusted metal of the fire escape as she left. He stared down at the pack of cigarettes still sitting on the railing next to him. Her hand drawn stars and smiley faces winked at him and he sighed and looked away, completely lost.


	12. Beyond a Reasonable Doubt

The bell over the restaurant door tinkled merrily as he entered. It didn't take him long to find the face he was looking for. She swept out from the back with a brown paper bag and spotted him at the door at once. One side of her mouth turned up at the corner.

"I wasn't sure if you'd gotten my letta. It's good ta see youse."

He felt his ears warm and he simply smiled.

"I was just on my way out though, you caught me on lunch break."

"Let's get lunch den." He said opening the door for her and following her outside.

"Oh, I wish I could. I have to stop home."

"Dinner den? Lata?"

He could hardly believe the words were coming out of his own mouth. Usually he got tongue-tied and shy around pretty girls. The longer he stared at them the smaller he seemed to get. He supposed it was because he had not bothered to stop and think about the words. They had just rolled off his tongue. Her words interrupted his thoughts.

"I can't. I'm sorry. I- I got a lot ta deal wit' right now."

He furrowed his eyebrows at her as he walked her down the street. She was being vague and hesitant. It was not at all her usual demeanor. Whenever he had visited her at the restaurant she was cheerful and talkative. Now that he thought about it, he had yet to see her beautiful wide smile.

"Is dere anythin' I can help wit'?"

She stopped walking and turned to face him. He saw her breathe deeply and exhale through her nose as her lips curved upward. It was pleasant, but still not the smile that made her face light up and his heart skip.

"I wish you could." She whispered and he could see the longing in her eyes.

"At least lemme try den." He found himself whispering back.

He saw her hesitate. She opened and closed her mouth several times. He merely waited.

"Okay, hea's tha truth." She said finally, taking a deep breath. "My family is dead."

The words took a moment to sink in.

"Youse neva said in ya lettas-"

"I couldn't write it. It made it more real."

"All a dem?"

"Cept Kit, she's seven." Her face had paled and she wouldn't meet his eyes. "It- it was something to do with the cows. Kit won't drink milk. Her stomach can't handle it. Even as a baby. You shoulda see her diapers before we figured it out."

He couldn't help but grin even though he was slightly repulsed by the idea. She smiled bravely, but it still lacked true happiness.

"So, ya see? I gotta take care a my sista now. I jus' can't-"

"Date?" He finished her sentance for her.

"I'd love ta really get ta know youse, but with all dat's happened- It's not jus' me anymore. Please understand."

He did, but it still made him feel like his heart was breaking. She must have caught the look on his face because she bit her lip and sighed.

"It doesn't mean we can't be friends." She caught one of his hands in hers and his skin tingled. "I'll- see youse for lunch tomorra?"

He nodded mutely and she turned away from him.

"Hey!" He called just before she turned the corner and vanished from his sight. "Can I come meet her? Ya sista?"

He was once again surprised but his own words. She seemed to hesitate and he was keen to reassure her.

"I mean, if we're gonna be friends I'll prolly meet her sometime? Why not now?"

"Well, I don't have much time before I have to get back to work and I have to get her to eat."

"I won't hang around den."

She turned and headed down the street and he followed. She did not argue but let him fall into step next to her. For a minute they walked in silence.

"I hope ya don't think less a me. My place is kinda small."

He grinned at her and resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"I live in a Lodging House with twenty otha boys and I sell pape's ta make a livin'."

Her eyes had a hint of sparkle in them as she grinned back.

The place was not far and true to her words it was small. It was simply rooms for rent, a typical two story thing made of dark red brick and weather-beaten wood. There was a dirty striped awning over the front door and a rusty, rickety-looking fire escape clung to the either side of the building. He followed her up a set of stairs that bowed in the middle from use and she knocked on a thick, peeling door.

For another moment they stood in silence, then the door opened by inches. He didn't immediately see anyone until his eyes glanced downwards. A tiny girl stood there. Her head barely came up to his elbow. There was no doubt in his mind that this was Tiz's sister. Her hair was the same deep brown and her face was the same shape. Her high cheekbones raised the same way as she smiled politely, if a little shyly at them. Her eyes, though were a lighter brown than Tiz's. They were almost iridescent and they seemed to pull his own eyes as they sparkled up at him questioningly.

"Hi sweetie. I brought you lunch and I wanted youse ta me a friend of mine. Dis is Mush."

"Well, ya didn't tell me ya sista was so pretty." He found himself saying. "Maybe I oughta jus' wait for her ta grown up, since youse don't wanna date me."

The little girl blushed prettily and he suddenly realized what had always made other girls giggle when he had felt his cheeks go red and his ears warm. He glanced up at Tiz in time to see her roll her eyes with an amused smile.

"I brought youse a roast beef sammich." Tiz said to her sister. "Ya hungry?"

The little girl shook her head and Tiz sighed.

"C'mon, Kit. Youse had half a muffin yesterday. Ya tryin' ta starve yaself?"

The little girl shook her head again and Tiz sighed heavily and looked at him. He took it as his cue to leave. He had, after all, promised he wouldn't hang around.

"Well, I'll see youse at the restaurant tomorra, Tiz." He looked down at the smaller girl again. "Youse oughta try tha sammich. They're real good."

The girl's iridescent eyes stared up at him wordlessly for a moment and he found he had to literally tear himself away from them to turn and head back down the bowed staircase.


	13. Not for Love Nor Money

The murky day filtered in through the window and woke him. For a moment, as he stared out at the gray clouds and misty morning his only thought was that he had missed morning circulation. Then, as his brain kicked on and he began to really wake, he realized the window itself was unfamiliar.

He blinked and sat up.

A thin sheet rolled down his bare chest. The bed was unfamiliar, the whole room was. The only things he recognized were his clothes, folded neatly in a chair beside the bed.

And suddenly the whole thing came slamming back to him like a brick to the head. He physically reacted to the knowledge, pitching forward slightly as if the brick really had hit him.

Rebecca, the love of his life, had sent him a telegram asking him to meet her at the train yards. He had. He remembered the red bow in her hair and walking hand-in-hand with her to a bar. They had celebrated being near each other again. He didn't remember coming here, but what he did remember was the feel of her lips, her intoxicating smell and the smoothness of her skin as he slid against it.

He put his head in his hands. He wasn't sure if it was from the pounding hangover he had or because of what he had done. How had he let this happen? He had promised himself it would be different. There was no way he was going to let history repeat.

Slowly, a new sound filtered into his consciousness. The sounds of pots and pans in the kitchen and sizzling bacon. He knew it was her. She knew he loved bacon and eggs. The thought of all the history they really had made him groan. The fact that she was scrambling eggs for him made him feel so bad. She was the sweetest, most thoughtful girl in the world and he had taken advantage of her.

He considered slipping out the window and was stopped by the realization that there was no fire escape but mostly, he owed her some kind of apology. He grabbed his clothes and put them on hastily not bothering to pull his suspenders up over his shoulders or button his shirt. He pulled the door open and found himself in the only other room of the tiny apartment.

She had her back to him, busying herself at the stove. The red bow was gone this morning and her dark hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders. He tried desperately to think of something to say and came up only with: "Good mornin'."

She whirled, spatula still in hand, slightly surprised, but answered with a smile and a similar "Good morning."

She wore only a plain white sleeping dress that did nothing to hide the shape of her. He saw her eyes flick down the bare skin of his chest and his body reacted, turning on. He willed it off and advanced towards her.

"Becca. We can't do dis." He said softly.

"What? Have breakfast?"

"No, dat's not what I mean and youse know it."

She bit her lip and he couldn't help but notice the red color of them, still a little swollen from last night's rough kisses.

"Why not?"

Her eyebrows furrowed and one hip jutted out to the side, pulling her dress across her form a little tighter. He licked his dry lips.

"It's just gonna happen tha same as last time." He couldn't resist putting a hand on each of her hips. "I love youse, Becca. I prolly always will, but I don't wanna hurt'cha again."

One of her hands brushed lightly against the bare flesh of his stomach and slid up his chest.

"I know what you are, Vito, and I don't care. I don't care if we live in a cardboard box. I just want to be with you."

Their bodies were inches apart, her face tilted upwards towards his.

"I can't stand ta see you cry."

"It wasn't your gambling that made me cry. It was you pushing me away."

Their lips met. She was intoxicating, everything about her left him wanting more.

And yet-

The brick hit him again in the back of his head. She was an addiction. Like gambling and cigars, he couldn't give her up, but he knew he should. He knew it would be better for both of them if he did.

He pushed her away a little more roughly than he meant to. Her face looked hurt and stunned. He was breathing heavily. The realization had made him light-headed.

"Youse got a life in Newport. With a good man waitin' ta marry youse. Someone that won't make youse cry. Dis," He waved his hand around at the apartment. "Dis ain't no good for youse. I ain't no good for youse."

"Listen to me." She said earnestly, taking one of his hand in both of hers. "I know I do. I don't want that life."

"I made youse hock our engagement ring!"

"I never wanted that stupid thing in the first place! I told you so!"

"Don't youse understand? I wanted to give it to youse! You're tha greatest thing dat eva happened ta me and youse deserve all a it. Youse deserve a big ring and a beautiful wedding and a house in tha hills and I can't give youse dat 'cause I'm selfish and stupid wit' money!"

"Vito-"

"It ain't Vito no more. It's Race. Racetrack. Dat's what dey call me, 'cause I can't quit goin' ta tha tracks. I know what I am now. I owned up to it. It's all I'll eva be. I wish I could be more for youse."

"Please-"

"Jus' go home, Becca. Please. I love youse, but I jus' can't be wit' youse."

It took all the strength he had to turn from her and leave the apartment, the expression on her face foremost in his mind and the smell of burnt bacon following him.


	14. Home Truths

The kid knocked and then stood back, waiting patiently. He was the one fidgeting, rocking back and forth on his feet, like a child.

The door was flung wide and a woman stared at them for the space of a heartbeat and then flung her arms around the kid with a cry of delight. The woman was perhaps in her forty's with dark auburn hair and deep green eyes. For perhaps one second he entertained the thought that this was the kid's mother. Then the kid opened his mouth.

"Hi Gamma."

"Oh my dear, I've been so worried about you."

"I know. I'm sorry." The kid grinned.

"Who's you're friend?" She asked looking up at him over the kid's shoulder.

"This is Skittery."

"Oh, dear. What?"

"Youse can call me Michael if youse want, ma'am."

The kid glanced up at him and grinned. He shot the kid and exasperated look back.

"Well, come in. Come in. And straight into the kitchen. You both look like you haven't eaten in weeks. Don't they feed you?"

As she bustled ahead of them, he pointed a finger at the kid as he shut the door behind them.

"Youse tell anyone dat and I'll kill ya." He said lowly.

The kid grinned knowingly.

Over a hot bowl of some kind of vegetable soup he found Gamma did not have cats and that she was thoroughly pleasant. He wondered vaguely what made the kid leave his house in the first place, until the front door slammed and both the kid and Gamma's faces paled.

A young woman, probably only a few years older than himself walked into the kitchen. Her auburn hair and green eyes were an exact match to her mother's. The difference was the look on her face. Upon seeing the kid, her face dropped into a plain and ugly scowl.

"Sam, dear. I didn't know you'd be dropping by."

"Yes, well, I'll come back another time, shall I?"

She turned and left as quickly as she had come, but the effect was devastating. The kitchen had gone from warm and welcoming to cold and silent in seconds. His brain reeled to catch up. Gamma had sunk into a chair. The kid stared down at his shoes and kicked at the floor with the toe of his boot.

"Sometimes I wish I hadn't been born. Then maybe Ma wouldn't have to frown like that."

The kid hadn't said it to be dramatic. It was simply a whispered wish, childish but sincere. The look on the kid's face, more than the look that had been on his mother's face made him get to his feet.

Gamma looked up at him from where she had knelt by the kid and pulled him into a hug.

"Don't." She warned.

He attempted a smile and soothing words, but neither worked out as he planned. The words wouldn't leave his throat and his smile must have looked more like a grimace, because she raised her eyebrows at him. Before she could open her mouth to persuade him to stay put, he swept out the kitchen door.

She had a minute's head start on him though and was halfway down the street when he caught up to hailing distance.

"Hey!"

She didn't react at first. She either did not realize he was calling her or purposely ignored him at first. He jogged slightly and caught her by the shoulder. She spun on her heel, throwing off his hand in one fluid motion. The frown had not left her face and her green eyes were dark. Her expression was almost dangerous.

"It ain't the kid's fault."

"I never said it was." She threw back at him.

"You treat him like it is."

Her eyes dropped from his and her eyebrows relaxed on her forehead. For a split second her expression was admonitory and perhaps apologetic. Though, it was gone so quickly he wasn't sure he hadn't imagined it.

"I suppose you noticed that he doesn't look anything like me or my mother? Do you know who he does look like?"

He swallowed hard.

"He looks like the man who promised me the world, promised to take me away from this place." Her eyes challenged him. "He was the man who saved me from myself, promised nothing would ever hurt me again. All I had to do was hold onto his arm, do what he told me and he fixed everything."

He found he had no words.

"I don't suppose you know what it's like to trust someone completely and have them betray that trust?"

"Maybe not the way you do." He admitted.

"It's like your whole world gets turned backwards and you're just lost."

For some reason her words annoyed him.

"So what? You're just gonna stay lost until the next man comes along and promises to fix you?"

Her eyes widened.

"You're mocking me?"

He had not really meant to sound so blunt and he regretted it. He stared around wildly and shook his head.

"No. I'm jus' sayin', youse gotta learn ta walk on your own." He sighed. "And tha kid- he jus' wants ya ta love him. And no matter what he looks like, tha kid ain't him and it ain't his fault."

"You're suggesting I just hug him and tell him I love him even if it's a lie?"

"No." He said and shook his head slowly.

"Then what?"

"I ain't gonna tell you what ta do." He shrugged. "You have ya own brain and voice. Use dem."

"Skittery?"

The kid's voice broke the silent spell between them and he turned from her to see the kid standing a ways down the street. His eyebrows were knit as he glanced back and forth between them.

He left her standing there without a backward glance and moved toward the kid.

"You didn't say anything mean to her didja? I don't wanna make her feel bad." The kid said softly as he approached.

Something in the pit of his stomach clenched tightly at the concern the kid showed for a woman who didn't deserve his care. He grabbed the kid by the back of his neck and crushed him to his stomach in a fond, one-armed embrace.

"Listen ta me real careful for a second kid,"

The kid's big brown eyes stared up at him questioningly, his attention more focused than any eight-year-old's should have been.

"I ain't patient and I ain't exactly a happy-go-lucky kind a person."

The kid grinned slightly. It was rather an understatement and even he saw the humor in it.

"I neva had any little brothers or sisters or anything, so when it comes to kids, it's like rolling dice in the dark for me alrigh'?"

He glanced up to see her turn and walk away down the street.

"But no matter what I say, no matter how annoyed I might seem wit'cha, I want'cha ta stick around, okay? I'll always look out for ya."

The kid smiled and, as it always did, it made him feel better.


	15. A Day Late and a Dollar Short

The sun had risen into a pale blue, cloudless sky. He stared up at it, almost confused, wondering if it was some sort of trick. It wasn't hot, nor cold and rainy, as the last few weeks had been. Selling a hundred papers that morning had been a breeze. There was no news anywhere that mentioned escaped convicts and in his opinion, no news was good news. Today was, dare he say, perfect.

He practically skipped across town to his second home. He knew he would find them on the roof. They had taken to having lunch together almost everyday and he joined them occasionally. It was almost like having a family. A real family.

He climbed the fire escape two steps at a time and emerged on the roof to find them sitting on the ledge laughing over sandwiches and milk. For a moment he watched them, a soft smirk making its way irresistibly unto his face.

"Jack!"

The littlest of the three had spotted him and rushed forward. He vaulted the last few steps onto the roof and pulled the kid into a fond hug.

"Hey, guess what? David's got a job offer in Chicago!" The kid burst out without pausing to let him guess.

"Come on, now! Can't I even share my own news?" The older boy reproached with mock sternness, but there were a tiny smile on his lips that he couldn't repress.

"Chicago?" He asked as he stumbled forward, with the kid still clinging to him.

"At the '_Chicago Daily News_' as a junior reporter." The attractive girl at his side put in with a definite air of pride in her voice.

"Come on!" David waved the milk bottle in the air.

"Congratulations, Davy. When do ya start?"

There was a moment's silence as the small group's smiles all fixed on their faces. They heard the real question and were not particularly happy about any answer the boy would give, because what he had really asked was:_ 'When do you leave?'_.

David raised the milk bottle to his lips and to their amazement smiled widely into it. He had the air of a boy cradling a bombshell.

"Actually, I'm not taking the job."

"What?" She asked.

"Denton's set me up with a clerk job at the '_Sun_'. It's just spell-checking and collating, but it's here in New York."

"Why?" The word was out of his mouth before he knew he was saying it.

David grinned up at him. Slowly, his eyes panned down to the boy still clinging to him and the girl across from him. He got to his feet and clapped Jack on the shoulder.

"I got family here. Remember?"

His own words, from so long ago almost startled him.

* * *

He had not heard the other boy join him and the words made him jump slightly

"Boy do I got news for youse."

"How do ya always fuckin' do dat?" The first boy asked in a little something of a temper.

No matter how wary a blue eye he kept on his surroundings, this boy always managed to sneak up on him. He hated it and he got the distinct feeling the boy knew it and did it on purpose.

"Eh, ya too focused on what's in front a youse." The second boy said airly. "Don't got eyes in tha back a ya head."

"So what'cha got for me, Mitts?" He changed the subject abruptly.

Although it irked the hell out of him that Mitts could sneak up on him and did it often just to get a good rise out of him, he didn't complain. What it really meant was that this boy was good at his job and he had to respect that, no matter how it annoyed him. Besides, he liked Mitts.

"Well, word on tha streets is Cowboy's Pops turned up outta nowhere and now he's thinkin' 'bout leavin' New York."

The first boy took the news stoically.

"Keep an eye on dem."

"What are ya thinkin'?" Mitts asked slowly. "I mean, 'Hattan's a pushover if-"

"'Hattan's an ally." He said sharply. "Wit' or wit'out Cowboy."

Mitts raised an eyebrow, but nodded slowly as if satisfied. It was almost as if the answer had been expected, and that receiving it was relieving.

"Dat it?"

"No." Mitts said with a shake of his head. "'Bout tha guy youse wanted me ta follow."

He was fixed with a piercing blue, interested stare now, as he hadn't been before.

"I'm, uh, a little worried 'bout it."

"Why?"

"Well, I dunno what direction youse is goin' wit' dis."

"What d'ya mean?"

"Well, we're newsies. Maybe a little liftin' hea and dere. Nothin' worse than wallets and pocket watches though."

"Mitts, spill it will ya?"

"Morgan's inta Opium smugglin'."

There was no reaction. Mitts hadn't expected there to be, still, he didn't even blink.

"He ain't high level or anythin', but he's definitely helpin' bring it in off tha boats and he knows what it is."

Finally, there was the tiniest hint of a reaction in the form of a tiny crease between his eyebrows and the faintest hint of a frown.

"I jus' don't think we need ta get involved in somethin' like dat."

"No." He said. "Dat's not what I had in mind. It ain't for us. It's for me. I needed ta know and it makes me just as uneasy as youse."

Mitts crossed his arms.

"Dis is youse uneasy?"

He saw the smirk in the left corner of his mouth and then it was gone, replaced by his ever-present, mask-like stare.

* * *

His lone blue eye stared out over the treetops and the glassy surface of the blue pond reflecting the bright color of the sky. He felt the light breeze ruffle his hair a little and the warm sun on his skin. Today was almost perfect.

Almost.

He was just missing someone to share it with. Today was the type of day he would have taken her to the park. Perhaps they would have shared a simple lunch under the shade of a tree or walked hand-in-hand down the sunlit park trails. He shook his head and pulled out a cigarette. No, he wouldn't permit himself those kinds of thoughts.

He lit his cigarette and as he glanced back up, there she was. It was as if his thoughts about her had magically conjured her out of thin air. Her wavy blond hair shimmered in the sunlight as she walked alone ahead of him.

He was on his feet and tearing after her without a second thought.

"Hey!"

She kept walking.

"Hey!"

He managed to reach her and grip her by the shoulders. She almost over-balanced in the wake of his enthusiastic greeting.

"Excuse me?" She said indignantly.

His eye widened a little. Embarrassingly, he had the wrong girl wrapped in his arms. She looked like her a little, but there was no mistaking the annoyed blue eyes that stared up at him, so unlike her dazzling green ones.

"Sorry, I thought youse were- someone else." He said releasing her at once.

The girl huffed, dusted down her dress as if he were infectious and walked off with her nose in the air.

For a split second he hesitated. He had wanted to see her so badly and he had been ready to spill everything and apologize profusely for everything he had said. The feelings had not left him and he hared away across the park.

But the place was dark, there were no personal items that he could see from the closed window leading out onto the fire escape. It was just a room, no longer a home.

She was gone.

Regret welled in him as he thought about her. He would never again see her soft, wavy blond hair, feel her smooth, full lips or stare into the dazzlingly bright green eyes.

* * *

His thoughts were of a girl. Though curiously, instead of a wide warming smile, a pair of light brown almost iridescent eyes were on his mind. He marveled inwardly at the way they had seemed to shine with their own light. They were eyes that sparkled. He had heard people say it before, but had never experienced it.

His eyes fell on something similarly sparkly in the sunlight. With a grin he walked up to the vendor and pointed.

"How much?"

"Penny each."

He smiled, scooped five of them into a brown paper bag and tore off down the street.

He didn't bother with the door, but went straight up the fire escape. He could see her just inside the window, bent over a board game she had spread out on the floor. Her big, sparkly eyes found him at the window moments after he tapped on the glass. She clearly recognized him, but got to her feet and approached him a little cautiously.

"Brought youse somethin' tastier than roast beef." He said handing her the bag through the open window.

She took it curiously and opened it. Her face lit up and she looked back up at him with eyes that shone like the sun.

"Apples! Tiz and me used to pick apples off the crab apple trees in the front yard!"

He smiled.

"They were always full of worms though."

"Dese are worm free. Guarenteed." He said with a laugh.

"Thank you!"

He felt his ears warm just a tiny bit and he attempted to deflect her enthusiastic attention.

"What'cha got dere?"

"Checkers." She said following his pointing finger. "Wanna play? It's boring playing by myself."

"Sure." He said with a shrug, climbing in through the window.

"Okay! I get to be red, though!"

"No way, I wanna be red." He teased her as he sat himself straight down on the floor opposite her across the board.

"But Tiz always lets me be red!"

Another knock interrupted their dispute. This time it came from the door and Kit jumped to her feet to answer it.

Tiz walked in and upon seeing him sitting on the floor, her face clouded. He hadn't the slightest idea what would make her look at him like that. His own face dropped from smilingly happy to interested concern.

* * *

It was the face he usually wore when he played cards. His eyebrows stayed constantly knit. It was something he had trained them to do. He knew more often than not, his eyebrows gave him away, so he had learned to hold them tight on his forehead, not allowing them an inch.

"Fold" The man to his left sighed, throwing his cards down unto the table.

"Call." The man across from him said without emotion, pushing a few chips into the middle of the table.

"Call." The man to his right followed, doing the same.

"I raise." He said confidently, throwing his own chips into the center.

"Ah, fold." The man across from him scowled.

"I'll see youse." The man on his right said with a grin. "What'cha got?"

"Sorry. Dat's t'ree of a kind." He said, spreading his cards, face up on the table.

"I'm sorry too den, I got a full house."

The man on his left whistled lowly and he shook his head.

"Man, youse on some kind of winning streak, pal." He commented as the man swept the chips from the center of the table.

"Guess I'm just lucky today."

He let the corner of his mouth curve upward in a smile he did not feel. He wished he could have a lucky day. They seemed to come so few and far between, and lately, boy. Everything just seemed to be stacked against him.

He knew he ought to have stood up and taken the few chips he had left with him, but he didn't. He raised his arms and clasped his hands behind his head as they were all dealt five cards. He sighed.

* * *

The tension in his back seemed to dissipate as he stretched out comfortably on his bunk with his hands pillowing his head.

"Can we go ta tha park?"

"Come on, kid we jus' got hea." He said with a sigh, turning his head to the side.

As the kid often did, he climbed up onto the lower bunk, his feet on the bed, his hands clinging to the bed above, his face just barely peeking over the top of the bed to look at him.

"Please?"

A few of the newsies looked up as a woman entered the bunk room. Her dark green eyes swept the room and landed on them. The kid next to him gulped. He lowered himself slowly off the bunk and rounded the corner of it, clinging to the pole like the safe place in tag.

"Ma?"

He sat up in bed and stared. There was a silence in the room. Her eyes were on the kid. Without another thought, he vaulted over the edge of the bunk and unto the floor. With one arm, he pushed the kid behind him. He stared into those cold green eyes.

"What d'ya want?" He asked her suspiciously.

"I just wanted to talk." She whispered.

With a half glance down over his shoulder at the kid he warned him to stay put. Then he advanced to the door and with a hand on her elbow he steered her out the door and away from prying eyes and ears.

"So, talk." He said a little more gruffly than he intended.

"I just thought he ought to know the truth. I thought maybe he'd hate me less if he did."

He stopped the words _'He already does'_ in his throat. Instead he inhaled deeply, pushing them back down.

"He don't hate youse. He neva did. Your his Ma. Dat's all he needs ta know."

She seemed a little surprised.

"Youse jus' wanna tell him 'cause it'll make youse feel betta."

She leaned heavily against the wall and sighed.

"Maybe." She whispered. "That's just it though, I don't really know what I'm doing."

"Neither do I." He said with a grin. "Youse have no idea."

"The day we met. I saw you hug him. On the street. I saw the way he looked up at you. I don't think he's ever going to see me that way."

He shrugged.

"Maybe not."

She stared at him. Clearly, it was not the answer she had been expecting.

"He's a kid though. Ya ain't gotta be perfect. Ya jus' gotta be dere."


	16. Right as Rain

_A.N. I know I said 'shortly'. I apologize. I'm a liar. I know it. You should be used to it by now. Also, I still don't own Newsies._

* * *

The perfect day had not stayed perfect. Around two the dark clouds rolled in faster than he could blink. The first crack of lightening and thunder sent big, heavy raindrops falling fast and furious from the sky and people running for cover.

Everything around here changed in a New York Minute. Even the weather.

He knew something was up the moment he swam though the Lodging House door. He would have much liked to head straight upstairs and dry off, perhaps get out of his sopping wet shirt, but it was not to be.

Snitch grabbed him by both shoulders as he walked through the door and put a finger to his lips. He pointed. Standing near the desk were two men dressed in suits talking to Kloppman.

"Any of you boys eva hear of Francis Sullivan?" Kloppman called loudly.

An odd sense of déjà vu seemed to hit him. Although there were fewer of the boys here and most of them were sopping wet still, some with towels, some half dressed, he couldn't help but feel it had all happened before.

"Dat's an unusual name for dese parts." Specs piped up to the general agreement of the rest of the boys.

He felt his heart lift. His boys were the same as always, willing to protect him no matter the cost. Today, though, things were different. Today, he knew why these men were here. Today, he had no fear of them.

"No, no." He said waving his hand to the boys in a thanks he hoped they understood. "I'm hea. Francis Sullivan. Dat's me."

"Jack don't play around." Snitch said catching him by the elbow.

"No, it's alright. Really." He said nodding to the boy who released his elbow only reluctantly.

"Youse boys are lookin' for me Pops, ain't dat right? Got my name and address off some register at the prison? So what took youse so long?"

The two men stared at each other and then at him.

"You're his son?"

"Dat's right. Dat's some good detective woirk dere. What'd youse say ya name was again? Sherlock?" He asked the man who had posed the question.

The boys snorted into their hands. A few laughed openly.

"Have you seen your father?"

"Yea, he was hea." He nodded slowly, unable to resist. "But he put an egg in his shoe and beat it."

He couldn't help the smirk that turned one corner of his mouth. The boys all laughed openly this time. The two men seemed stoically determined neither to laugh, nor admit they were being made fun of.

"So your father was here."

"Yea. He's gone now, though. Ain't seen him since." He answered, truthfully.

"And you have no idea where he went?"

"My Pops has been in jail tha last six years a my life." He said, staring the man down. "We're real close."

The men said nothing, but exchanged a look.

"No, dis is my family." He said, spreading his arms wide.

His eyes scanned the room. He caught Crutchy's wide smile, an approving nod from Specs, a knowing smirk from Boots. He knew they would have all said the same thing in his position, but he knew it was good to hear it from him.

One of the men reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a small white card that he handed to Jack.

"If you see him again, call this number."

He nodded seriously and the men passed him and left through the Lodging House doors, back into the torrential downpour. He watched them go with a smile spreading slowly across his face. When they were finally out of earshot, he could not contain himself anymore.

"If youse see him, call dis number." He mimicked, purposely making his voice deep and intimidating. "Where am I gonna call from?"

The boys chuckled, spurred on by their light spirits he held his hand up to his face like a phone.

"Yea, dis tha police? Yea, I broke into some hoity-toity's house ta use tha phone. Yea, I'll wait right hea."

The room erupted into laughter and Snitch clapped him on the shoulder. He grinned and disappeared upstairs.


	17. It Never Rains, but Pours

The first boy stood quite alone, under the awning of some tiny, run-down shop. His hat and shoulders were soaked through. Rain water dripped from his hair. The second, smaller boy seemed to appear out of nowhere, as he was so adept at doing. The brim of his hat dripped with water and the shoulders of his blue shirt were lightly spattered with the rain pattern, but really, he was oddly dry. Honestly though, there were many odd things about this boy and lack of rain water was hardly topping the list. The larger of the two boys seemed surprised by the smaller's appearance, but recovered quickly.

"So, how does a blind goil, livin' alone get a gun? And what does she need it for anyways?"

Morgan stared down at him with his small, beady, hazel eyes. Eyes that were remarkable like his sister's, yet very different at the same time.

"Ya realize how much danger ya puttin' her in?"

Moran swallowed hard and nodded once.

"It isn't for much longer." His voice was almost pleading. "I almost got enough."

"Enough what?" He spat.

"Money."

"Ah, ya gonna whisk her away ta some small town like where ya grew up, where tha two a youse can be happy?"

"No." Morgan's small eyes narrowed. "I been talking to an eye surgeon. There are treatments that could make her see again."

His ice-blue eyes fixed Morgan with a curious stare.

"Ya gonna let some whack job wit' a knife carve up ya sista's eyes?"

"He isn't a '_whack job_'!" Morgan said suddenly. "He's been treating blind people at the Brooklyn Eye and Ear Infirmary for twenty years. And it's worked! Some of his patients have been able to see again."

"And some of 'em haven't."

"I gotta try." He said more quietly. "I'd do anything for her."

He paused, and under cover of taking out a cigarette and lighting it, he surreptitiously sized Morgan up. By the look of him, he had the feeling that Morgan had gotten all the brawn and Rhiannon, all the brain. He supposed Morgan could have been lying, still, if his snap judgment was correct, Morgan didn't have the brains to be that manipulative. Also, if he was anything like his sister, he was good at heart, whatever his actions might be.

"Ya eva thought, maybe she's fine wit' bein' tha way she is?" He asked, exhaling smoke.

Morgan sighed and leaned his back against the brick wall behind him.

"Maybe she told you, but when we were young, there was a big willow tree not far from our house. We used to climb right to the top and watch the sun rise almost every morning. Everyday she'd always said it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Everyday it got more beautiful to her." He sighed again, more heavily. "It's my fault she can't see it anymore."

Morgan looked so dejected and miserable in that moment that he felt sorry for him. He reached out and offered Morgan his cigarette, who took it with a half-grin and sucked on it gratefully.

"Ya know, she don't blame youse." He said quietly.

"Yea, I know." He said heavily. "Sort of makes it worse."

"She'd be angry if she knew what ya were doin'. I was."

Morgan glanced up at him quickly.

"I ain't gonna tell her." He amended with a half smirk.

"She probably already knows anyways." Morgan almost whispered and he had to chuckle.

"Ya gotta stop dis."

He nodded slowly.

There was a sharp whistle from across the street. Both boys turned their heads to see a man skulking in the mouth of a nearby alley. He looked impatient.

"A loyal customer?" Spot questioned, a hint of malice in his voice.

Morgan stared at him for a long moment, then rumbled into speech.

"Everything I do, I do for her."

He turned on his heel and headed across the street. Spot let him go, sighing. He knew that no words were going to dissuade Morgan. He had walked the length of the street and turned the corner when the shot rang out. It echoed in the still, silent night and froze him in his tracks. For a moment, he was unsure of what he had heard. His brain was racing to catch up with what his ears had heard, but his feet had already understood and they had turned and began to run. He splashed through the thick puddles collecting on the streets.

Morgan lay crumpled against the alley wall, clutching at his stomach and gasping for breath. His keen blue eyes scanned carefully for any hint of the skulking man, but he was long gone into the rain. Below him, Morgan's eyes slid shut.

"Morgan!"

"He only- he only took the opium." Morgan rasped, his eyes fluttering open once again.

Spot crashed to his knees next to the boy and tore his hands from his stomach. There was a round, burn-marked hole in his shirt near his belt. There was the tiniest amount of thick, deep red blood oozing slowly from it. For a single second, it didn't seem that bad. Then, Spot realized he had put his knee down in a rapidly spreading pool of the same deep red color coming from underneath Morgan. It was seeping into the puddles of rain like tea into boiling water.

"Shit. I'm goin' for help." He was already halfway to his feet when Morgan stopped him.

"Wait. Take- take the money out of my vest pocket- It's for-it's for her. Tell her- I want her to see the sun rise. Tell her that- for me."

With a grimace, and hating himself for what he was doing, he rifled through the dying boys clothing. He found the wad of cash and pocketed it.

"Tell her yaself. Hang on. Jus' hang on!"

His feet were running once more.


	18. Come In Out of the Rain

He had been running and was out of breath now. He only slowed down when he reached the Lodging House, when he was finally out of the rain. He trudged into the bunk room with his hands in his pockets, leaving muddy footprints and pools of water where the rain dripped from his clothes. When he reached his bunk he began to strip off. He was soaked to the skin without any dry clothes to change into.

"Hea, ya look like a drowned rat."

A dry, if slightly smelly towel hit him in the face. When he had managed to pull it down out of his field of vision, Mush's face grinned at him.

"Look at it dis way, youse prolly needed a bath."

He almost grinned and began rubbing the towel furiously through his wet hair.

"S'matta wit'cha?"

They were the best of friends and newsies generally showed their affection for each other with insults and backhands. He and Mush were constantly trading sarcastic quips, something they had grown good at over the years. He never missed an opportunity to joke with Mush and his silence made Mush curious.

"Nothin'." He said casually.

He left the towel on the top of his head as he pulled his suspenders down off his shoulders and began to unbutton his sopping shirt. Conveniently, he had left the end of the towel hanging over his good eye so that Mush could not peer into it.

"Dis 'bout dat goil? What was her name?"

"Lily." He bristled a little at the mention of her. Mush picked up on it, astutely, but continued in a casual voice.

"Yea, I ain't seen her lately. Youse still wit' her?"

"Nah, she's moved ta San Fran. She's gone."

Admitting it out loud made it finally sink in. He was surprised at how much it hurt.

"Dat sucks."

"Eh, I'm ova her." He said hoisting himself up onto his bunk and beginning to towel off his legs and arms.

"I'm surprised she lasted as long as she did." Mush said taking a seat on Snipeshooter's bed, opposite and below him. "She hung around for a month. Longest relationship youse eva had, wasn't it?"

"Oh, what? Ya keepin' score now?" Mush caught the hint of sarcasm in his voice. It was good to hear it.

"Someone's gotta keep track a how many times ya strike out. Youse in, like, the bottom of the sixth now." Mush leaned back and stared up at his friend. "But hey, gives me somethin' good ta bust ya balls 'bout, so I ain't complainin'."

"Hey at least I step up to tha damn plate once in a while."

Mush grinned. That was more like it.

"Hey I'm steppin' up now."

"Yea, afta years on tha bench."

Mush rolled his eyes. He wanted to talk about her, but they were getting off-topic. Plus, the small instance of humor had lightened the mood, so Mush pressed his luck.

"So what? Ya fight?"

"I guess. I told her what happened ta my eye. She seemed kinda upset."

Mush avoided the eye that was still good. He knew the other boy did not remember the time he had gotten so drunk he had spilled the whole story. Mush remembered him describing the incredible amount of blood and the way green glass looked when it was actually inside your eye. Mush remembered he had downed an entire bottle by himself that night. Since that night, he had a greater understanding of the cheerful, smiling one-eyed kid.

"She said she wanted me to move to San Fran wit' her. I told her no. I guess I got pretty angry at her."

"So what it's her fault ya don't got two eyes?"

The boy on the top bunk stared down at the other. Re-telling the whole thing now made him feel stupid and childish. Of course it wasn't her fault. She had just wanted to make him feel better and he had snapped at her.

Disgusted with himself he laid back on his bunk. His head hit his pillow and the corner of something rather sharp poked him in the back of his head. Momentarily stunned by the pain, he slipped his hand behind his head and drew a small box out from under his pillow.

It was a box of cigarettes with a heart drawn on it in grease pencil. For a full minute he stared at it. Then he flipped it over in his fingers. There was an address scrawled there.

"She ain't gone yet. Betta hurry though." Mush said quietly from somewhere he couldn't see.

The words were like a jolt of electricity. He vaulted down off his bunk and hastily climbed back into his wet pants. He was two steps toward the door when Mush called him back.

"Hea. I was gonna give it ta Tiz, but you prolly need it more than I do." Mush threaded a single, long stemmed pink rose into his hand and grinned. "Knock one outta tha park."

He grinned back.

"Mush. You're a brother."

"Yea, I know. Keep it ta yaself, will ya?" Mush said, clapping him on the shoulder and literally pushed him towards the door.

* * *

_A.N. I'm simply dying to know what you thought. Good or bad, I like compliments or helpful criticism. Please review or PM me! I swear I don't bite!_


	19. Rain Check

A few hours ago, he had bought a little something for each of the girls that had been running through his mind so often for the last few weeks. Now, he was down to only one gift. He didn't regret it, though. He knew the rose would be put to good use. Apparently, Blink needed all the help he could get to keep a girl. He grinned slightly to himself as he splashed his way down the streets, trying to keep under awnings and out of the downpour as much as possible.

He never used the door, but climbed the fire escape hurriedly and set the apple on the windowsill. He had just turned to go back down the steps and hopefully scramble back under an awning somewhere, when the window opened behind him and the little girl's delighted squeal made him stop.

"Mush!"

"Heya Kit."

She was already clutching the apple. Her iridescent eyes were wide and there was a happy smile on her face. It was a smile that was so familiar. He realized with a pang that he hadn't seen Tiz's face light up like that since she had briefly left New York.

"You weren't even going to say '_hi_'?" She had to almost shout over the patter of the rain on the fire escape and the streets below.

"Hi." He said a little lamely.

"You wanna play checkers?"

He smiled sadly at her and shook his head.

"I don't think Tiz'd like dat."

"Tiz already came by. She went back to work a little while ago. She won't be home again until much later." The little girl's face dropped into a sort of mischievous grin. "Come on, we never actually got to play last time."

He couldn't help but grin at her and he shook his head again.

"Please?"

It was her eyes that did it. They were round, shining, sad, puppy-dog eyes. They seemed to lock onto him and pull him as if she controlled him and not his own brain. She smiled broadly at him as he climbed inside through the window. Then, she noticed he was dripping with rain water.

"I'll get you a towel." She said cheerily. "The checkerboard is in Tiz's room. We were playing last night. You go get it while I-" Her voice faded as she turned the corner and was gone from sight.

He sighed as he realized just how hopelessly he was wrapped around the little girl's finger. Oddly, it made him smile. He peered into the first tiny room hesitantly. There was a bed and a nightstand and not much else. The checkerboard was spread out on the floor. As he bent to collect it he noticed an envelope sticking out of the drawer of the nightstand. His heart gave a funny leap as he recognized his own untidy scrawl. He plucked it from the drawer with a soft smile. The envelope was stuffed full of of the letters he had written to her. Tiz had kept his letters.

There was only one he didn't recognize. It was written in a curly script and as he unfolded the page he left a little guilty. His curiosity got the better of him though and he scanned it slowly. There was nothing really remarkable about it. It seemed to just be a kind, friendly report. '_How are you? How's the weather?_' That sort of thing. When he got to the bottom of the page though, he stood there for a long moment and stared at it. It was signed, '_Love, Mom_'. He glanced back to the top for a date. The letter had been written a mere week ago. He was suddenly confused.

"Mush? The board is there on the floor."

He turned to face the little girl. Clearly, she discerned something was wrong from the look on his face. Her expression was confused and her eyes questioned.

"Kit, are ya parents dead?"

Slowly, the little girl shook her head.

"What 'bout ya brothers and sisters?"

Her eyebrows knit.

"I don't have any, besides Tiz."

"And why are youse hea in New York wit' Tiz now, 'steada back home wit' ya folks?"

"Momma said, Tiz missed me and wanted me to stay with her for a little while."

He glanced back down at the letter in his hand. Without another word he sidestepped the girl, headed back towards the window.

"Hey! Where are you going?"

He realized a second too late how he had seemed to her and he turned back to offer an apology, but none came.

"I gotta see Tiz." Was all he could manage.

"But we were gonna play checkers!"

"I- I can't right now. I'll come back and play with you later."

"You promise?"

He managed a nod and tore through the apartment, out the window and down the fire escape. The rain was coming faster and harder than ever, but he made no note of it other than to hold the letter close to his body to protect it from the water.

Her saw her at once through the large picture window of the restaurant. She was serving an older couple. All three of them looked up when he banged his fist against the window, but he only had eyes for her. Her expression was confused and irritated. As he slapped a hand and the letter to the window though, her face paled.


	20. Rain on my Parade

He sighed and leaned back against his pillows. There was absolutely no way he was hiking all the way to Sheepshead in a rain like this. So he had returned to the Lodging House and collapsed onto his bunk. Now that he thought about it, he had been spending a lot of his free time at the Lodging House lately. He hadn't been to Sheepshead or the poker house in nearly a week. His pockets were noticeably heavier for it.

He wondered vaguely if he had subconsciously stayed away from gambling for her. Perhaps it was some sort of penance. He sighed. He knew he'd be back to it eventually. He had tried to give it up before, with firmer resolve, for better reasons. He hadn't done it then and he knew he wouldn't now.

He closed his eyes and like a flickering moving picture show, the back of his eyelids lit up with images of her face. A small smile crept on to his mouth as he daydreamed about her.

* * *

His hand was sweating slightly in hers. He kept thinking about letting go to wipe his palm on his pants. He'd only have to suffer without her touch for a moment, but it seemed unbearable. Besides, she didn't seem to mind.

"Oh my, that one's huge!" She pointed with her free hand to the house just visible from behind neatly trimmed hedges and a wrought iron fence. It was indeed, huge.

"Can you imagine living in a house like that?"

"Maybe we will, one day."

She rolled her eyes at him.

"If that awful old Mr. Elville ever gives you the promotion you deserve."

He laughed.

"I'm too young. He'd never make a kid like me a partner."

"Well what does age have to do with it? You do all the work around that place. He barely has to lift a finger."

"True," He admitted. "I still think I'm gonna have to wait a long time before I get any kind of raise. Plus, Elville has a son a few years older than me. You remember we met him six or seven months ago at the Christmas party last year."

"Oh, I remember." She said thoughtfully. "He's the one that's been lazing about, traveling and wasting his father's money."

"That's the one." He said with a faint laugh. "Well, he finally made it through college and I get the feeling that Mr. Elville wants his son to learn the business."

She stared sideways at him, trying to read his expression.

"Tim's a good man. He's spoiled and I envy him, but I don't have anything against him." He sighed.

"Oh well, you know, in a house that big we'd never be able to find each other anyways."

He smiled and she tugged him around a corner leading down a narrower cobblestone road. The houses were smaller here. They sat on much less land, but they were neat, clean and certainly roomier than his current apartment in the city.

"See, now this would be a perfect place for us." She said stopping in front of a squat, but charming house with red shutters and a large oak tree in the front yard. "Not so big, but room enough to raise a few children."

He rolled his eyes at her.

"Here we go with the kid thing again." He said in mock exasperation. "You're crazy if you think I want any little copies of me hanging around."

"Well, I want them." She said taking both his hands in hers.

"What? One of me isn't enough?"

"Of course not! I want as much of you as I can handle! Besides, I am crazy. You know I have to be to be in love with you."

He chuckled at her as she reached up to kiss his cheek lightly. His eyes slid closed at the touch of her soft lips against his skin.

"How'd I get so lucky with you?" He whispered to her.

"I wonder that same thing everyday." She whispered back.

"You know, I was talking to Tim about you yesterday."

"You were?"

"Yea, I told him I wanted to marry you."

She smiled brightly at him.

"Tim said we're too young."

"Maybe." She laughed.

"All the same, you make me happier than anyone else in the world. Hell, I'd even put up with little me's running around, just to be with you for the rest of my life."

Her contented, smiling expression was replaced with surprised breathlessness as she felt him slip the ring around her finger. For a moment they stared at each other. Her eyes welled with happy tears. His mouth smirked slightly.

"I don't care what anyone else thinks. Will you marry me?"

* * *

He opened his eyes. The weight of being without her pressed heavily on his chest. Looking for some sort of distraction from his thoughts of her, he peered out the window. The thick, low clouds and dismal patter of raindrops did nothing to lift his spirits. The water on the windowpane reminded him only of her tears. The tears he had caused her.


	21. Come Rain or Shine

The rain beat mercilessly at the cobblestones and the awning above their heads. He still carried half a dozen papers. Sure, he supposed they could wade through the rain the sell the rest, but it just didn't seem worth it.

"Hey Skits?"

"Yea Kid?"

The kid scuffed at the ground with the toe of his boot. The look on the kid's face and the fact that he wouldn't meet his eyes made Skittery uneasy.

"I know whatever my Pop did to my Ma was bad, but why does she hate me for it?" The kid asked in a rush of breath.

"Oh, shit." He cursed under his breath, putting a hand to his forehead.

"I've neva done anythin' to her. I mean, Gamma says I was a fussy baby, but-"

"It ain't dat, kid."

"Den why?"

He hesitated and sat down heavily against the wall. He had known there was something on the kid's mind all morning, but he hadn't asked. He hadn't because, honestly, he had already known what it was. He had just been hoping the kid wouldn't ask.

He contemplated lying, but he hated lying to the kid, especially about something so serious. He didn't think he'd be able to stand it, if five years from now, the kid would look at him and know that he had lied.

"Kid, do youse know how ta make a baby?"

The kid's eyes widened and his cheeks flushed slightly, but he nodded.

"I heard Snipeshooter and Boots talking one night when youse were all at Medda's."

He shook his head.

"Well, dey ain't exactly fountains a knowledge, but I s'pose it's tha same way I figured it out too."

"From Boots?"

"No." He said quickly, closing his eyes. "I- forget dat."

The kid's eyebrows knit. He was confused and the conversation was not going as planned.

"Makin' a baby," He hesitated, trying to find the right words. "It's supposed ta happen when two people love and respect each otha, but dat don't always happen."

He looked down at the kid. His expression was still slightly confused. Skittery pulled his hat off his head and scratched at his forehead.

"My folks used ta fight all tha time. Dey shoulda neva had a kid, but I'm glad dey did or I wouldn't be hea. Your folks shouldn't have either. Your Pop wanted to, but ya Ma didn't. If your Pop respected ya Ma, he wouldn't a done what he did."

"My Pop wanted a baby?"

"He wanted tha act of makin' a baby." He saw confusion cloud the kid's face again. Apparently, Snipeshooter and Boots didn't know everything either, or perhaps the kid had only overhead part of their conversation. "Point is, ya Ma hates ya Pop for what he did. She ain't wrong ta either."

"She should hate my Pops?"

He looked the kid straight in the eye.

"Maybe you're not old enough ta understand jus' yet, but listen ta me real careful, cause you're gonna be a man someday." He paused making sure he had the kid's attention. "No man should disrespect a woman like dat."

The kid nodded, obviously still a little confused, but Skittery knew he had driven the point home.

"Now look, when two people have a baby, dere's a chance it could end up lookin' a little like both of dem. Or sometimes it looks more like one den tha other. Youse don't look like ya Ma at all-"

"So I look like my Pop?"

Skittery nodded. He was fairly impressed at how intelligent the kid was.

"Ya Ma hates ya Pop, and when she looks at youse-"

There was no need to explain further. The kid nodded and bit his lip.

"But- I ain't my Pops."

Skittery opened his mouth, fumbled for words and closed it again. He was once again impressed by the kid. He nodded and sighed.

"Ya know, I don't like tha way she treats youse." He said ruffling the kid's hair fondly. "But- I got a little sympathy for ya Ma."

"Ya do?"

He nodded seriously.

"So, do ya think it'd help if I stayed away?"

"I dunno, kid." He shrugged. "I jus' don't know."

For a moment, the kid stared down at his boots. His eyebrows were still knit and he was frowning. Then he looked up, his expression clearing.

"Skits?"

"Yea?"

"Thanks."

"For what?"

The kid scuffed his boot.

"Well, I can talk ta youse 'bout stuff. Tha otha newsies'd laugh at me, and Gamma don't answer my questions. She treats me like I'm still five. Not youse though. So, thanks."

The kid smiled and suddenly, Skittery felt like he was worth a million bucks.


End file.
